Star Trek: Heronas
by Snorpenbass
Summary: My own spinoff of Enterprise, starring the intrepid Captain Charles "Trip" Tucker III and his stoic XO Commander T'Pol as they tinker with engines, break speed limits, fight Romulans and funky aliens and go where Starfleet hopefully went before.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** This marks the beginning of my own personal spin-off of Enterprise. Featuring captain Charles Tucker III and his crew of misfits, oddballs and Vulcan renegades, breaking speed limits, tampering with things beyond human ken and serving as the Help Desk for Starfleet.

**Spoilers:** for all canon seasons of ENT will be plentiful, though my interpretations may differ greatly from published Killer Bee opinion.

**Spoilers For The Lazy:** Here's the "Previously, on Enterprise" summary of my season finale fix.

Early 2155: In a brutal slave raid among the Andorian Aenar, former captain Shran is captured alongside several others, including his betrothed. The Enterprise is asked to investigate a mysterious distress call coming from Andoria, one not going through any regular channels. They quickly find the trail of an Orion slaver headed for Romulan territory. Enterprise follows.

T'Pol and Trip are still grieving but seemingly getting better, she wants to pursue the relationship but is unable to tell him, and he's the uncertain one for once.

The ship exits warp in an unknown system, Enterprise disables the slaver ship's engines and moves to beam aboard captives when the cliffhanger kicks in: three seemingly Andorian ships warp into striking range and barrage the Enterprise! Also, someone aboard the slaver ship is sending coded transmissions to Andorian space.

While Malcolm and the MACOs go on the disabled slaver ship to rescue the taken Aenar (as well as Shran, but they don't know that until he angrily pops up among the albinos and tells them to get a move on). The rescue goes fairly well with only one dead, but while _they_ go _there_, it seems as if the unknown enemy send encounter-suited commandos on board the Enterprise! They go for the engine room where T'Pol and Trip are keeping things running, and in the chaos Trip pushes T'Pol out of the way of a disruptor blast. He's vaporized, sending T'Pol catatonic.

At this point the _real_ Andorians arrive following Shran's message for help earlier, along with the Columbia. The fake Andorians are taken out, but all attacking ships self destruct before being captured. In the end, the Enterprise limps home towards Earth, escorted by the Columbia. T'Pol is in a biobed, unresponsive, Malcolm has lost an eye in the fighting, Jonathan is grieving the death of his best friend and everything seems dark.

A month later the Romulans strike the dilithium mines on Coridan Prime, and in the ensuing battle the Columbia and Enterprise make the first human acts of aggression (in defense of another species) against a foe unlike they have ever faced. After several human colonies are attacked at seeming random by ships that appear out of nowhere, war is declared.

...

* * *

...

"_The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
The ceremony of innocence is drowned"_

-WB Yeats, "Second Coming"

...

**More Than One Year Ago.**

"Starfleet _needs_ you."

Harris stared at his future operative. It was almost embarrassingly easy to convince the man what had to be done, and in his defense he did feel horrible about manipulating a grieving man. But feelings didn't get things _done_.

"_I_ need you. You're the best we _have_ in the area, and you're the only one who can do this." He paused for effect. "But...you're going to have to die first."

The man looked up, surprised. Harris nodded, affecting a sad expression. _Careful. He's smarter than most think. Don't overdo it._ "Let me introduce you to agent Phuong..."

...

* * *

...

**Ten Months Later.**

The rain drizzled down on the jungle of Gormax II much like the gods themselves had decided today was a good day to empty their bathwater. It was much the same color, too, gray and dull and sucking the color out of the foliage. The only sound that could be heard, far in the distance, was that of some avian calling out to any of its species of the opposite gender.

Doctor Ehrehin stumbled _through_ the muddy dirt road rather than _on_ it, trying not to glance back at the shadow he knew he always carried with him. The Tal Shiar never let him out of sight. He was too important.

_May the gods piss on their graves as they piss on me._ He belched. That last batch of _sad'veh_ soup had not been properly aged. But then, getting anything halfway decent on this humid, rain-soaked urinal of a planet was beyond hoping. All you could expect here was fungus in the shower and mold on your feet. Well, that and those damn blood-colored native simians stealing anything not nailed down or locked up.

...

He pushed open the door, reveling in the gust of warm, dry air coming from within. Now _this_ was a place he could get lost in. On a raised dais a Caitian was dancing some intricate, supposedly erotic dance from their home world far beyond the borders of the Empire, in a corner sat half the night shift of the cruiser always guarding, always orbiting high above, and as for the rest of the clientèle, you would meet more trustworthy people at an Orion slave auction.

He grinned. _Good, that means I fit right in._

The barkeep looked up, an old half-breed whose brow ridges suggested a parent or grandparent had had disgraceful relations with a Klingon at some point (which explained why he had a disgusting job in the toilet end of the Empire), and nodded. "The usual?"

"Yes. And lots of it. I'm starting to sober up." Ehrehin staggered over to his usual place, seating himself, putting his elbows on the counter and then burying his face in his arms. His head was pounding, now, and his stomach was quickly souring.

A tall glass of pure blue liquid landed on the counter near his head, and he took a deep, ragged breath before sinking more than half of its contents. It burned like blue fire in his throat and made a molten copper thunderball in his gut, but it took the edge off of both headache and sobriety. Now that he was starting to feel somewhat _Rihannsu_ again, he took a more serious look at the people in the bar. His shadow, seated by the door looking as inconspicuous as a Tellarite at a seminar on beauty. An Orion, discussing business with a diverse, barely Romuloid crew. Prostitutes plying their trade, not very well, but then, this wasn't the best place for that. Or much of anything.

His eyes landed on a fellow seated a bit down the bar, staring morosely at his drink. A Romulan, like he and his shadow, young, good-looking if you were into that sort of thing, hair unkempt and brow ridges slightly swollen from some local infectious disease, dressed in civilian clothes. At least once one of the working girls attempted to engage him in a little negotiable affection, but he waved them off with a frown, nursing his single drink.

Ehrehin pursed his lips. The young man reminded him of himself, to be truthful.

Apparently the fellow noticed that he was being watched, because he suddenly spoke up, his voice soft but carrying easily across the bar, carrying an odd lilt to his accent that reminded the doctor of more rural areas of Romulus. "Does it ever stop hurting?"

Ehrehin blinked. Ah. Female troubles. That explained the disinclination towards the services of the professionals plying the bar. "Depends on the reason."

The young man glanced over and gave a feeble smile. "I had to leave her. Duty. Honor. Orders."

The doctor pondered this. He certainly knew what _that_ was like. He'd had two wives in his long life, both of whom were gone. One had left him while he was still a young engineer serving the then-Praetor, and the other..._no_.

He didn't like thinking about _that_.

Not if he was to keep alive long enough to see his life's work completed.

"She finally told me how she felt, too. You know how rare that is? We'd played this crazy game of back and forth for years, and when she finally..." The youth looked down, then took a deep swig from his glass. Whatever was in the beverage, it smelled strongly from all the way over there and was likely more harmful than the ale Ehrehin was drinking. Possibly it was reactor coolant. "But then there was...a death."

The elder man remained silent.

"In the family. We were... And then my new orders came through, and-" He finished the drink, and coughed into his sleeve. Then he looked at Ehrehin and nodded, once, in polite greeting. "Cunaehr."

"Ehrehin."

Cunaehr frowned. "_Ehrehin_? Huh. What's the Empire's lead expert on warp theory doing in this charming little outpost? I thought _I_ had it bad, but..."

It felt surprisingly good to be recognized, if only by name. Few of the citizenry knew even _that_ much. "Oh, I live here. It's not so bad, really."

That elicited a sardonic smirk and raised eyebrow. "_Right_. You're here for the beautiful weather, I presume."

"Well, that and my laboratory. You're interested in warp theory?"

Cunaehr nodded, smiling. "Definitely. I'm an engineer. Been working on older things, and the things we've borrowed from...outside sources. Amazing what they can dream up."

Ehrehin glanced nervously towards the door, but his shadow seemed to have found a new purpose in life, staring at the rear end of the Caitian dancing girl. This was good, since his new friend was talking about things one simply did _not_ talk about. He was likely more drunk than he appeared.

Apparently the boy realized this himself, because his eyes widened and he glanced about twice before speaking again, this time more quietly. "Not that, ah, we don't innovate in the Empire. We're _quite_ skilled."

"Long live the Empire."

"Long live the Empire." Cunaehr sighed, pushed the glass aside, then stood up, checking a communicator that was chirping. "Well, I'd better get back. Maybe we'll meet again some day.

"...I'd like that. It's good to have someone to talk to again."

The younger man gave him an odd look. "I...suppose so." Then he nodded, and went on his way.

…

* * *

...

The next time he saw Cunaehr was less than a single planetary rotation (calling them 'days' failed to describe the way daylight failed to ever truly penetrate the cloud cover, the most you got was shades of paler gray) later, the day after he solved the containment field issue on the singularity. So simple! It had been staring him in the face all this time, and now...well, now all he had was the long, painstaking process of documenting everything, reporting to the Ministry of Technology and solving the actual equations necessary for higher warp. Months of work to come. Possibly somewhere dry.

The bar didn't feel quite so bad tonight. Possibly it was just his mood brightening things, but he really truly felt as if the place was less smelly, more inviting. And at the bar sat Cunaehr, discussing quietly with another fellow in the same civilian uniform. The young man lit up when Ehrehin approached, waving for him to be seated nearby.

"Please, I insist! I've ordered a bowl of _plovaka_ nuts, they should balance out the drink somewhat. Have one on me."

Something was tickling his paranoia gene the wrong way. Wasn't the man _too_ friendly, _too_ open? Maybe he was another shadow sent to lure incriminating foolishness out of his mouth, sent to make sure he would never _think_ of leaving the employ of the Praetor, maybe...

_Ehrehin, you old drunk, you're getting paranoid. The Tal Shiar are quite happy just keeping you here. If they want you gone, you'll just be gone. They're not that subtle._ "Don't mind if I do," he said out loud and sat down heavily, trying not to wince at the pains his weary old bones supplied. He picked up a large, spherical nut, cracked the shell with his fingers and emptied out the content in his hand. The naturally salty, protein-rich nut melted in his mouth, sweet and salt and slightly smoky in the aftertaste.

Cunaehr grinned at him. "Watch this." He then took out one of the larger nuts, hefted it twice in his hands, then suddenly slammed it hard into his own forehead. The shell cracked, and the contents were eaten in a single bite. The huge grin was infectious.

"What in the...that's _not_ good for the ridges, you _know_ that."

The young man grinned even wider, chuckling. "Mother? Why are you dressed as an old warp theorist?" He inclined his head to show he meant no real disrespect, then passed the bowl back again.

"So why are you so cheerful today, young man?"

"Because my orders have changed. I'm to finish up here and go back home. Barkeep! A round of drinks for me and my friend here."

_Ah, youth. _

…

"...you know, you, you know..." Ehrehin frowned. His eyesight was getting bloody. Blurry. Blue. Bland. No, blurry. Because, because, because. Something. _Wossname_.

"...you know I never really understood why they call it god-_fearing_. Gods are to be, to be, to be _revered_ and _sacrificed_ to and _worshiped_...but _feared_? If you, if you feel..._fear_ your gods, isn't that a sigh-sign that they're not...where was I?"

Cunaehr frowned. "No idea. Maybe we should...oh. I think...I think we're drank. Drunk."

Ehrehin followed the young engineer's gaze onto the bar counter and realized it was filled with bottle after bottle after bottle, and twice that amount in empty glasses. He had no idea what that milky red substance was, but he had a feeling it was why he had trouble focusing his eyes. "You know, you know, you...might be right. Did we eat all that?" He barked a laugh. "Eat? _Drink_! Did we _drink_ all that?"

The engineer leaned toward him, conspiratorially. "Maybe it was the little goblins who live in the engines."

They both chortled at this amazing display of wit and humor. "Maybe it was!" Ehrehin turned around and pointed at his Tal Shiar shadow. "And there's one now!"

The following laughter woke up the body guard, who glared at them both suspiciously, checking to see if his many hidden weapons were still there...and hidden. Well, maybe it was time to call it a night. "What, what time is it. Sit? Pit. It."

Cunaehr frowned, glancing at his chronometer. "Early morning. Sun'll be up soon. Along with the little goblins."

They chuckled, but not quite as much at first. When the two realized the Tal Shiar agent was still glaring, the dry chuckling turned into belly laughter, and they staggered to their feet, green in the face with mirth.

They parted ways, and Ehrehin stumbled slowly back towards the compound, his bodyguard-slash-handler dutifully trundling on behind him.

...

The man known as Cunaehr watched them pass the nearby curve in the road, then straightened up, eyes clearing, face sobering. He frowned. At this hour, only two-three guards and the Tal Shiar liaison would still be at the compound. The only one actually _living_ at the facilities was Ehrehin, and that was because he was more or less a prisoner. But even so, the deaths of four people would forever be on his conscience. If this worked, five. Hopefully he'd be able to keep the casualties that low.

_War is war. Never forget that._

He pushed the button on his chronometer.

…

* * *

…

The world was shaking. Roaring. Ehrehin tried to open his eyes, finding only darkness.

He remembered turning to say something to his handler when the sky had lit up like the sun had broken through the eternal clouds. The shockwave had knocked him over, followed by the thunderous roar of a massive explosion that reached from one end of the horizon to the other. _The containment field._ But that was impossible. He had _solved_ it, it was _secure_!

Wasn't it?

_Wait...if Cunaehr was civilian, who would he be getting orders from?_

He opened his eyes, and regretted it. He was lying on a rough bed in what appeared to be an interrogation chamber, and a tall, imposing man in admiral's regalia looked down on him from above, sneering coldly. "_Doctor Ehrehin._ Your project is an abject failure. _Again_." The man pulled out his honor blade. "We have tolerated your drunken ineptitude and self-sabotage for the last time."

The very last thought of the man who would have won the war for the Empire was that his killer seemed less annoyed by the deed than someone killing an insect.

…

* * *

...

"Well?"

"Yeah." The man known as Cunaehr sighed, rubbing his eyes. Though whether it was weariness from fatigue or from the things he had _done_ was up for grabs. "You cut it a little close to morning. I had to keep him drinking all night."

The other man shrugged. "Security was good. No wonder they only had three guards, they barely needed even that much. I tampered with the field harmonics like you said, worked like a charm."

"Doesn't make me feel any better about killing four people. Five if you count poor Ehrehin."

"No. Knowing the Romulans won't be going into battle with singularity-powered Warp 7 battlecruisers should, though. We saved a lot of lives here, today."

Cunaehr looked at the still burning rain forest and frowned. "Did we?" He reached up and pulled off the black wig, revealing golden blond hair the likes of which no Romulan had ever possessed. He scratched his head._ The things I've done._ "Feels like we just postponed it."

The other man, who also appeared Romulan, shrugged again. "Maybe so. But at least we're going to have enough time to catch up, now." He picked up his duffel from the bushes, shouldering it. "Come on. The sooner we get to Adigeon Prime and get this crap off ourselves, the sooner we can go home."

Cunaehr nodded, taking out his own gear. They had been a good team. He was the technical expertise, the one who figured out how to make it look like a technical failure, like the theory wasn't working. His partner did the wetworks and the actual physical deeds. But the mission was complete now. Over and done with. After a whole year getting redesigned from the DNA up, infiltrating the Romulan underground on Vulcan and then spending the better part of a year in most insular star nation in the quadrant, he was finally going _home_. He smiled softly.

_She's gonna hate me for this_.

...

**TBC**


	2. One Year Later

_"There are three things you always have to keep in mind as an engineer._

_1: If factory specs say something will hold, always test it yourself, because it won't._

_2: Do sweat the details. _

_3: It's all details._

_There's a fourth one that encompasses all of the above: Anything that can break, will, at the worst possible time."_

-Charles Anthony Tucker III, "Basics of Engineering"

...

* * *

...

**Enterprise**

"Executive Officer's Log, Human date 13th of February, 2156.

The Enterprise is exploring the sector once known as the Delphian Expanse, seeking out alliances with any major powers in that area. Captain Archer is insisting that we make stops on every world we visited during our search for the Xindi, even though few of these will be able to provide any kind of assistance. With the war between Romulus and Earth intensifying now that Vulcan and Coridan has declared neutrality, we can ill afford delays. However, I can also understand the human desire for correcting past mistakes and inadvertent wrongs. Improving our damaged reputation can only aid in gaining allies in the region.

In other news, my sensor sweeps reveal that all gravimetric disturbances and anomalies have vanished, leaving behind only trace amounts of unusual radiation and lifeless worlds once blanketed in the anomaly fields.

...as for personal notes, Admiral Gardner is strongly suggesting to Starfleet that I be transferred to the newly built Daedalus-class science vessel the NCC-043 _Copernicus_, to serve as commanding officer. It is the belief of both myself as well as my fellow senior officers that his suggestions are not entirely founded in logic.

Also, my sleeping patterns are still...erratic."

…

_The waves had smashed up and over the small island, and a lone figure struggled against the black waters. Any attempt at screaming for help, any attempt to find solid ground was met by solid walls of water, driving breath out of lungs, forcing foul, bitter water down the throat. Up became down, down became left, right became back. No light to show the way._

...

T'Pol sat up straight in her bed, gasping for air. Sweat cooled against her skin, leaving her feeling clammy, unfresh, _uncomfortable_. Another attempt at sleep had been met by illogical dreams of drowning. She felt her brow crease into a slight frown, and sniffed the air. _Yes. Not quite acceptable._

She sat up, removing the sheets from the bed and placing them in the refresher, then replaced them with fresh ones. Finally, once she was done folding and smoothing out any disharmonious wrinkles and creases her own bed-wear followed suit and she entered her small bathroom to clean herself off.

Vulcan ships used sonic showers, for the most part. Pulses of infra-sonic waves that vibrated through clothes and body, causing any dirt, grime and particles to fall off while killing any organism capable of causing odor. They were more efficient, and they did not require disrobing beyond modesty. But even if she had access to one, which she didn't, she still preferred the human luxury of a water shower. Granted, the water was recycled, flat and mildly chlorinated, but it was quite efficient for what it was, especially at the higher temperatures.

The fact that it made her feel warm and comfortable was beside the point.

She reached for the soap, and inspected it. It only had a week or so of use left. A small bar of yellow gold, scented with honey and lilac, shaped around a long, slender synthetic fiber rope.

_Soap on a rope. Get it? No need for shelves, you just hang it on the nozzle or showerhead or whatever until you need it._

_Interesting. A very logical design. _

She blinked, wondering why her inner eyelids itched faintly. Then she began removing the last remnants of sweat and nightly grime.

…

She glanced at the clock as she dressed. One whole hour until her shift began. She paused, briefly, to open her stasis unit, remove a small package, open it and take out a single multi-colored garment. She stared at it, briefly, inhaling the smell without needing to bring it near to her nose. Then she replaced it inside the package, put it back in the stasis unit, put on her uniform jacket and exited her quarters.

…

"Commander."

Nod.

"Commander."

Nod.

"Commander."

She paused, nodding slightly deeper to Hoshi Sato. "Lieutenant."

"We're approaching the Lavinian homeworld. Captain Archer wanted to run through the diplomatic procedures with us both, so he wanted us to go over my files and the Vulcan ones before the meeting. After breakfast?"

"That would be acceptable." She nodded again and started to move along, when she noticed the faint look of concern on lieutenant Sato's face. "...is there a problem?"

The human woman glanced in both directions. "Um...I just wanted to say, if there's...if there's anything you need, or if you want to talk to someone..."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow.

"...never mind."

…

* * *

…

_A year._

Jonathan Archer picked up the old photograph and glanced at it. It was himself, Trip and three others, right after the experimental NX-Beta had flown, showing all the Vulcan High Command stooges that it was not only viable but also faster than they had claimed it could be. Ten seconds after the picture was taken, security had dragged him off.

_Small price to pay for rubbing their noses in it. Soval would approve, even._

He glanced down at Porthos. "I know, I know. I shouldn't get all moody just because of what day it is." The beagle just looked at him, the doggy expression slightly quizzical.

_February 13th. One year, tomorrow._

_One year since the life went out of this crew._

He set the picture down, straightened his jacket and sighed. New uniforms. Apparently the functional, comfortable jumpsuits were too..._civilian_. What was it they'd called them? _A remnant of a defunct aerospace agency._ So now everyone wore the navy-style pressed blue-gray slacks, sturdy deck boots, pale blue tunic and darker blue jacket with division trim on the hems, shoulders and sleeves. New emblem, too. Just the single delta-wing now, no motto or embroidered stars or even mission patch. The motto and stars were only on the official flag now. And they'd set the delta-wing insignia vertical instead of the old horizontal. Since Starfleet was pumping out all-purpose Daedalus-class ships and Delta-class frigates to meet the demands of the war, homogenizing the uniforms had been one of the least invasive changes to things.

The _big_ ones were...

Once in the hallway he had to duck an engineering crew working hard at laying down wiring through ceiling and floor. Changes had been made. Non-essential systems were now closer to floors and walls in the crew quarters, and though the ambient noise level had risen slightly he had to admit that sacrifices had to be made. A little extra noise was better than going into battle armored with the equivalent of Duck & Cover again. Because now they had _shields_.

The Vulcans had finally shared. Not everything. Not by a long shot. But their neutrality in this war had been finalized _after_ their little contribution to Starfleet, technically a few days before war was officially declared. Now every ship in the fleet had to be re-fitted with this new technology, which demanded a bigger warp core and reactor chamber, which demanded a larger engineering section, which in turn allowed for a bigger, more efficient deflector array, which...

_The cat on the mouse, the mouse on the rope, the rope on the candle, the candle on the hay..._

Well, the end result was a ship that worked. Hess was doing a fine job keeping the engines running, and while she wasn't a miracle worker like...well, some people were just unique, weren't they? Irreplaceable.

Yeah, that was the word. Anyway, she'd been a lifesaver on more than one occasion. Probably the best in the fleet, now.

The door to the bridge hissed open and he stepped in. A faint bosun's whistle played as he placed a palm on the ID-reader, allowing not only fingerprints but also biometric readings to be scanned. A necessary security precaution nowadays. The Romulans had wreaked havoc with computer systems during the early days of the war, forcing a greater reliance on intensified security and compartmentalized systems. That, and a removal of most of the former comms networks. Audio only, no data transfers, and nothing secure. It was clumsier, to be sure, to sometimes have to send a courier with data physically from one deck to another, but the risk of having the networks infiltrated in some non-essential system and through that reaching the bridge, or worse, engineering, was too great. He wasn't a fan of the big, clumsy safety containers in primary colors holding the data crystals, though.

_Might as well bring back floppy disks. Or tape rolls._

"Captain on the bridge!"

He ignored the MACO saluting from the doorway and made his way towards his chair. "As you were, gentlemen. Travis, give me a status report."

The young lieutenant's hands flew over the console with skilled ease. "One hour to Lavinius orbit, sir. Starfleet reports no major incidents in the Expanse sector, and according to Hoshi there's been only a few border skirmishes near the frontlines. Oh, and Stanford beat San Diego, 5 to 2."

He smiled at the junior officer. Good to know some things continued unabated. The universe could achieve heat death, Armageddon could come, the Romulans might invade en masse any second, but two things were a constant. Water polo and Travis Mayweather's optimism. He remembered a story Trip had told him about how he'd seen Travis and Phlox discussing something in the mess hall once. He'd described it as 'Two half-full glasses meeting and overflowing'.

But thinking of Trip never improved his mood, so he forced himself to ignore the sudden wave of unreasoning guilt just as the door opened again and his XO entered, dressed as always in a slightly modified version of the current uniform style. Cut more flattering than it should be, to be honest, though he'd never mention his personal quibble with that one to Erika. Not if he wanted to survive the next year or so. Though the modified uniform and the longer hair that now fell to just below her jaw and had to be held back with an IDIC pin and tucking behind the ears weren't the _only_ differences you could see in the commander.

_A Vulcan in Starfleet. A commander senior grade, too. Give her another year and she'll make captain somewhere. Sooner, if Gardner has his way._

She pressed her palm on the scanner, barely waiting for the acknowledging ping to recognize her authority before marching towards her console. Did she look slightly...irritated? Ill at ease? It was hard to tell. Though she looked no different, the last year had _not_ been kind to her, and he sometimes wondered if he could have somehow foreseen the effect of losing the vital third point of the triangle of command they had achieved. Probably not.

"Reporting for duty. I finished outlining the last sensor array modifications, and prepared a dossier for our upcoming mission with lieutenant Sato."

All business. A slight edge to her voice, and the faintest hints of green under her eyes confirmed his suspicions. When was the last time she slept a good night's sleep? Vulcans got by on far less rest than humans, but even that factored in didn't alleviate the fact that his XO was slowly falling apart. It was one reason he was starting to wonder if letting Gardner transfer her to the _Copernicus_ wasn't such a bad idea after all. "Thank you. We'll be having our senior staff meeting at 1100 hours."

She nodded in acknowledgement, and he frowned yet again. If _he_ was taking the day and date hard, how was _she_ taking it?

…

* * *

…

**Dagger of S'Lar**

Dark eyes stared impassively at the display on the darkened bridge. "How long until they make orbit?"

"Less than a _verak_. Do we bring weapons online?"

Commodore Valdore, former admiral, smiled softly. "Not yet."

There was an old saying. _A sand serpent strikes when needed, never before._ They would lie in hiding behind the Lavinian moon, their cloak protecting them from passive scans. They would wait. And when the time was right, when the trap was set, they would _strike_.

_Vengeance in victory._

…

* * *

…

**Andoria**

A small shuttle of unknown make approached the surface of the north pole. The clumsy, bulbous design suggested Orion make, but few Orion vessels moved as gracefully as this one, and no slaver knew the area this well..

Agent Tinh Hoc Phuong, formerly of Starfleet Intelligence but now a member of Section 31, glanced nervously at the man piloting the small craft through what to anyone sane appeared nothing more than a dangerous mountain chain filled with jagged spires of ice and swirling snow.

"Are you..." He swallowed as they passed perilously close to yet another jagged tower of blue-white ice that could pierce the small vessel like a heated knife through butter. "Are you _sure_ it's this way?"

"Keep your pantyhose on, agent. I've been through here once or twice. Trust me, it could be a _lot_ worse."

Phuong stared at the man. "_Worse_?"

"Yeah. It could be _rough_ weather."

"You mean it's _not?_"

The pilot grinned. "Not for Andoria it's not."

The long-time wetworks operative frowned, but kept silent. As the winds tossing the small craft about subsided, slowly, the walls of ice revealed a small, narrow entrance hidden skillfully against most forms of detection. As they passed into a strange wonderland of glittering, glistening ice, the pilot glanced over at him.

"We'll be safe here until Shran arrives. The locals are complete pacifists and never talk to anyone except him and a few of his friends. Oh, and don't worry. They won't read your mind without permission..."

"That's good...wait, _what_?"

...

* * *

...

**TBC**


	3. Coming In From The Cold

**Author's Note:** This chapter is a slow one, sort of, and mostly just to establish a few basic story elements, explain a few seeming plot holes, and also serves to prove an old Vulcan saying: "Patience and understanding has its limits." You'll see what I mean.

Note to those who follow my less serious fic "Green & Red & Starfleet blues", you might recognize pieces of one of the scenes here from the second chapter (a bit expanded, though).

BTW, there's no such Vulcan saying AFAIK, but there should be.

**Story So Far:** It's been almost a year since the Battle of Coridan. The war is in a mild lull for unknown reasons (but possibly related to an anonymous saboteur in Romulan space setting back the enemy's warp engine trials by a century) and the Enterprise is traveling the less visited routes through the former Expanse, hoping to find allies in the powers there (including the Xindi).

Meanwhile, a cloaked Bird of prey is following them close by, and many, many lightyears away a former saboteur and his Section 31 partner arrives at the hidden Aenar city on Andoria to rendezvous with Captain Shran...

…

* * *

…

* * *

**Fiedler**: _"Innocent people die every day. They might as well do so for a reason."_

-The Spy Who Came In From The Cold (1965)

...

* * *

...

**Andoria**

"...you're sure you can remove it without any damage?" Charles 'Trip' Tucker III frowned nervously as he lay back on the cool, not entirely comfortable bed provided for him. The two albino Andorians turned towards each other and shared some silent communication and a smile, and then the left one spoke.

"Yes, commander. None of the techniques we practice can truly harm an individual. It would be highly distressing for us to do any less. There may be discomfort, even pain, but nothing permanent or damaging."

"Right." Okay, maybe Shran was rubbing off on him. The grouchy starship captain only trusted _one_ Aenar, and she wasn't here.

Neither was he, for that matter. He was starting to worry what was holding the Andorian up.

"_Relax_, commander. Please, lie down, breathe slowly, and _think_ of her, if it soothes your mind. We will not take your thoughts, only what we placed there a year ago. No harm will come to you."

He nodded, tried to get comfortable (even though the Aenar, like their blue cousins, preferred temperatures _far_ below comfort), closed his eyes and focused.

_Wait, what about T'Pol, how's she-_

…

When Harris told him he had to die, _this_ had been his first concern to prepare for. Shielding his mind against the bond. He hadn't told Harris the specifics, he'd only made a vague claim that some said Romulans could read minds, and had managed to pilfer away some funds towards getting the Aenar to help him put up a temporary shield. The bond was still there, just muted so he couldn't feel her and vice versa. In return the reclusive pacifists were given a new kind of sensor baffler provided by Section 31, to help them become even more hidden than before, if that was possible.

It had felt much like cutting off his arm at the shoulder. Still did.

When the three armor-suited operatives had shown up (having spent most of the trip hidden in the nacelle walkways) to pretend to be Romulan boarders, Trip had been palming the small piece of paper that held the trigger word for his shield. When they shot him with a transponder to beam him out through all the ECS being waved about he glanced at it, and the scream that faded into nothingness as he was 'disintegrated' was quite real. The bond had been muted, shielded instantly the moment he saw the simple six-letter Andorian word.

He still had nightmares about the scream he'd heard from _her_.

…

He opened his eyes, blinked.

"Good morning, commander. I trust your procedure went well?"

Glancing over revealed Phuong, looking quietly confident as always. "Morning? What time is it?"

"Ten in the morning. Two _days_ after you went under the psychic knife, so to speak." The man shuddered, and gave him a speculative glance. "The antenna people refuse to say anything, and all I could see or hear was your scream before they rolled you out to the recovery room. Just what did they _do_ to you?"

Trip sat up, wincing at the stabbing pain behind his eyes. It would get better, soon. He knew that. "Nothing I didn't deserve. So what's the news?"

Phuong tossed a padd at him. "A lot. Vulcan joined Coridan in being neutral. Starfleet managed to get shield technology from them first, though. Bunch of one-sided battles on a lot of friendlies, Romulans winning every single one thanks to those damned cloaks. Tellarites and Andorians are still arguing over whether or not to join in, neither wants the other to be first, and neither wants to work alongside the other. Lately they've been quiet, though. Guess losing their top science project and super-brain jabbed a stick in the war machine's wheels."

Grunting morosely in reply, Trip peered at the screen, taking in news of events (hey, the Dolphins had kicked butt in the Super Bowl), incidents, war and...

"_New uniforms_? What the hell for?"

Phuong shrugged. "Beats me. Never was one for fashion, myself. By the way, Shran arrived in orbit about six hours ago. He's got a bit of a story to tell about why he was late..."

…

* * *

…

**Enterprise**

Doctor Phlox glanced over at the woman lying on the biobed and noticed her eyes were open. He smiled. "Ah, commander. About time you woke up. I was about to get a little worried."

T'Pol blinked a few times, and then spoke, her voice slightly unsteady. "What...what happened?"

"You collapsed. In the middle of a briefing on Lavinian greeting customs. According to Hoshi you simply seized up and then fell catatonic to the floor."

She seemed to mull the information over as slowly but surely her self control returned. "How long have I been...asleep?"

"Nearly two days."

Her eyes widened. "I see."

"Yes, you gave us all quite a scare! But I could find nothing physically wrong with you, apart from apparently being in a deep state of slumber, but that's to be expected."

The Eyebrow of Mild Skepticism was raised. "Why is that?"

He smiled even wider. "Oh, it's no great secret that you have been restless lately, going without even the bare minimum of sleep necessary for your species. Quite understandable, really, considering."

The brow was not moving. Further explanation was apparently necessary. "I mean, it being a year since commander Tucker..."

It was quite amazing, really. Anyone else might have thought she hadn't changed anything in her expression, that she was completely insensitive to the fact that the man most crew members on board secretly considered her lover had died saving her from a Romulan boarding party a whole year ago yesterday . On Valentine's Day, even. The human custom was quite charming, though in this case perhaps somewhat non-conducive to her mental or emotional health.

But to Phlox, who had served alongside the Vulcan female for coming on six years now, her sudden complete lack of expression was a massive sign that his words had had a profound effect on her. Whether the effect was for the good or the bad...well,_ anyone's_ guess would be as as good as his on that matter.

He could still remember the point when he himself had realized that the then sub-commander perhaps harbored less than entirely pure feelings towards the engineer. In spite of her later claims, it was quite some time _before_ her addiction to Trellium-D.

During an unfortunate altercation with an alien virus the sub-commander had begun exhibiting symptoms of Pon Farr, a condition that was, according to what little data the Vulcans allowed anyone to see, mainly a _male_ disorder.

Apparently Vulcan females would reciprocate this loss of control if in prolonged contact with such an individual, but outside relations with Vulcan males it simply did not happen. But there she was, making unwelcome and somewhat unsettling passes at him, refusing to take the sedatives necessary to let him work on a cure, and generally acting more aggressive than even the most base of humans. If anything she had exhibited many traits common in _Klingons_, though he doubted she would appreciate the comparison.

But in the middle of one of her emotional highs, commander Tucker had arrived to bring her food, and all of a sudden her entire demeanor had _changed_.

Where she had previously been uncharacteristically agitated, forward, _aggressive_, she suddenly went silent, staring intently at the chief engineer no matter what. According to the files he had studied, Pon Farr was generally not very selective in the more uncontrolled occasions, so the possible reasons why she had suddenly ignored a male standing in the very same room as her to fixate on one that was outside and _unattainable_ were...enlightening.

Not to mention that when she had finally managed to incapacitate him and escape she had not even so much as _touched_ him (he might have felt mildly insulted by this if he didn't already have three wives), instead she had run out into the evacuated halls to head straight towards...engineering. If lieutenant Reed hadn't been waiting in an EVA suit there was no telling what situation might have transpired.

He had to admit he was a bit of a romantic. When he'd studied ways of easing the trauma and depression the commander had been suffering after the Xindi disaster killed his sister, Phlox had read about the somewhat..._intimate_ implications of Vulcan neuropressure. He had immediately realized this was the _perfect_ way to push the two together without either truly suspecting the intent behind it. Oh, the humans had their little rules about non-fraternization, but judging by the sheer amount of unofficially official couples on the Enterprise alone he doubted they ever truly enforced it other than in extremely obvious and egregious cases.

Which was why commander Tucker's death had been such a tragedy.

All these things and more was what doctor Phlox was thinking of as he made one final check-up of the Vulcan woman's nervous system and general health. Ironically, she seemed more fit and prepared for duty than prior to her collapse, but he'd had incidents with sudden bursts of health and vigor fool him before, so instead he put on his best smile, put the scanners away, and made his diagnosis. For now.

"It seems you're doing quite well, commander. However, I recommend taking the rest of this day off." She started to protest, and he raised one hand to cut her off. "Ah-ah-ah. I _can_ make it an order if I have to. I highly suggest you spend the rest of this day eating something, then sleeping or meditating or whatever you require. No arguments!"

She left in an almost sullen air, causing him to smirk softly to himself. She was as stubborn as the commander had been. It was sometimes hard to see which one had gained the habits of the other, to be honest.

…

* * *

…

Meditation had proven near-impossible for some time now. Most attempts at focusing would be shattered by loss of attention, lack of concentration and...occasional emotion. The actual _grieving_ she had done long ago, after his death. Sometimes she would, without any prompting from her conscious self, recall those last few seconds as a golden beam of energy struck his chest and turned him into nothing more than glittering motes as he disintegrated in front of her. She hadn't even been able to look at his face one last time.

Regret was illogical.

But then, what was it he had told Kov so long ago? That regret was one of the strongest, most powerful of emotions? He'd been right. About this as well as so many other things. Of course, he had also been _wrong_ about many things, she had brought great effort into proving this to him _quite_ often.

She swallowed, hard. Once again she digressed instead of focusing. Phlox was mistaken. Her problems did not derive from this being the human anniversary of the event.

Taking a deep breath, she settled herself into the proper position, closed her eyes, and...

…

White space came instantaneously. To her great surprise, she not only managed to hold back her shock at her sudden success, she felt..._comfortable_. At ease.

She exited her white space, feeling her mouth turn dry. Blinked. She had the feeling something monumental had just happened, but could not quite remember exactly _what_. Her meditation had succeeded, yes. But something else...

Taking another deep breath. And another.

She had to ascertain if her success was a one-time event or whether she had regained her focus.

She took a deep breath, focused on empty, white space, and again attempted meditation.

...

It came as easily as last time. Easier, even. What had changed?

And suddenly someone she _knew_ yet had never seen before wandered into her white space. Apart from the odd brow ridges, he was...a Vulcan? No, he was _smiling_ - and there was something _familiar_ about that smile...

He looked at her.

She stared back at him. Raised a querying eyebrow. "You are Vulcan?"

The look on his face was unbecoming of any Vulcan, shock, surprise, chagrin. "Huh? _Oh_! Sorry. I've gotten kinda used to the ears and face. Hang on."

That voice. That accent. She knew him well.

She wasn't sure whether to be disgusted or not at the way he tore off the thick, coarse black hair in one swift tug to reveal soft, blond locks underneath, or the way the tips of his ears came off as if they were mere sculptor's wax, or the way the odd brow ridge peeled away from his forehead like removing adhesive tape. Last came contact lenses, turning dark eyes back into blue. Each piece of the disguise evaporated into nothing the moment he released them. It was symbolic, perhaps.

Cold ran down her spine. "...impossible. You are _dead_."

His face was a study in human emotions, mainly embarrassment and shame. "Uh...yeah, about that..."

She _felt_ rather than realized that this was no illusion, no personal fantasy, no hallucination brought by too little sleep. This _was_ her mate. Her mate, who had died a year ago. But if he _was_ dead, she would be unable to sense these human emotions flowing into her from somewhere far, far away. Her nostrils flared.

"What did you do?"

He raised both hands in a protective gesture, even though she hadn't moved. "Now, honey, I can _explain_, you're probably gonna _hate_ me for this, but-"

"Hate is an emotion. What. Did. You. Do."

The vague hint of cold irritation escaped her voice without her intention. The effect on him was...satisfactory. Fear. Concern. Shame. Yes. Quite satisfactory.

"...I had the Aenar make a psychic shield for me, and-"

Someone _screamed_ in rage, someone _threw_ themselves at him, hands closing around his throat, and-

…

She exited meditation as her emotional control truly _failed_ her for the first time in many, many months. Her skin felt cold...or was she heating up? Scrambling to her feet she tried to calm herself, but each breath brought another torrent of fury, another wave of sheer _anger_. He had...how did...he...that...that..._human_!

…

Lieutenant commander Hess had befriended commander T'Pol shortly after the death of Trip, an odd sort of friendship, where Anna talked to her in the mess hall, discussed movie nights with her, generally filled an empty hole, or at least tried to. It had started as a joint effort between her and Hoshi, but had swiftly become quite genuine. In time she had come to understand just why her old commander had been so infatuated with the Vulcan, why he never allowed Vulcan slurs, why he would smile mysteriously when people said their species was cold or unemotional. It was better to say they were...stoic.

Composed.

_Private_.

Which was why when Hess paused outside T'Pol's quarters, thinking to bring her an engineering report to while away her free time and instead heard from within repeated, angry screaming, crashing noises and cursing that would make a Klingon blush...she simply turned around, her face carefully kept blank, and left.

_Maybe I should ask Phlox about this..._

…

* * *

…

**Elsewhere**

"Hey. Hey! _Pinkskin_!"

Trip shook himself. "Huh-buh-whah?"

Shran was staring at him with concern. "You were mumbling. 'Spaced out', I think Archer would call it. Anything I should know about?"

He considered telling the Andorian, but wisely (in his own humble opinion) decided against it. It was...private. "Nah."

The blue-skinned alien gave him a suspicious look (that is, more suspicious than usual), but then shrugged. The antennas twitched a couple times, but stayed in the calm zone.

"Get your gear ready. We're approaching our destination now." With that he turned and walked out the door, leaving Trip alone in the small captain's mess.

A large viewport dominated the far wall, and he took the opportunity to look outside as he packed up his duffel again. Halfway through the process a familiar sight came into view, and he stopped, staring.

Earth.

Hanging there, a blue and green and white and golden jewel in a dark void, adorned with ships and shuttles zipping to and fro, a necklace of satellites, space stations and orbital platforms only managing to make her no less than the _second_ most beautiful sight in existence.

He finished packing.

…

* * *

…

**TBC**


	4. Pawn to Bishop7

**Enterprise**

"_Say what?"_

Why was it that humans always demanded to hear claims and facts they disliked a second time? The facts never changed between the telling. Their hearing was on the average not faulty, so it had to be some irrational desire to be told better news.

"I have reason to believe that commander Tucker is alive and well."

The captain stared at her, disbelief warring with trust and concern. Lieutenant commander Reed was expressing mostly disbelief, but also some concern, and doctor Phlox also radiated concern in spite of his usual calm smile. Their doubt was quite understandable. After all, she had presented no tangible proof of anything, yet.

"You...might have to explain that one."

She nodded. "During the time in the Expanse, commander Tucker and I entered into what you would refer to as a - relationship. During this relationship, we developed a...bond."

Doctor Phlox looked surprised, but kept silent.

Captain Archer frowned. "'Bond'? What kind of bond?"

She hesitated. "I...am unsure of the specifics. It is of a psychic nature. When I had the opportunity to discuss such matters with the Syrranites, it was suggested that this may be fairly common, but not discussed due to the stigma telepathy held in Vulcan society. They themselves knew only the barest basics."

Phlox nodded. "I've read about something like this. It's common in Andorians, though with them it has a more physical, pheromonal effect, and in Deltans and Betazed, who have a tendency to form empathic bonds with specific individuals. When you say _psychic_, do you mean-"

It was Archer who intervened on her behalf. "Actually...I think I know what she's referring to. The few memories I've retained from carrying the _katra_ of Surak in my brain does suggest..." He stopped. Then smiled. "So _that's_ why both of you were unaffected by the Orion women!"

She felt her neck heat up slightly. The incident happened in a period of time she was not particularly proud of, just before she managed to take the teachings of the _Kir'Shara_ to her, when she was still in denial of both the bond and the less negative emotions she had felt. Not to mention that the bond was a highly intimate matter to discuss, and...well...she was even less proud of her own reaction to the Orion females. A reaction that was less due to the pheromones they wielded and more due to their clumsy attempts at seducing Trip. The thoughts she'd had about them had made her glad the bond was so unreliable at that time. If _he_ had found out...

"...yes. In the time that followed that incident, the commander and I came to realize this bond was permanent and allowed us to sense each other's presence, occasionally share emotions and thoughts, and if in the right state of mind, share mental visions across any distance."

Now for the hard part.

"...after the incident involving our...child...it appears he visited the Aenar of Andoria to provide a form of psychic shield that would block his presence from me, and then somehow used this to falsify his own death. I do not know the details, but logically it stands to say that my collapse was a side effect of his removing said shield. When I attempted meditation after recovering, the shared mental vision was - enlightening."

She swallowed.

"I was quite agitated when I found out."

Phlox smiled wider. "Lieutenant commander Hess was most upset by what she heard from your quarters, though I take it you have regained your - equilibrium?"

"I have. Though I intend to have a long discussion with him if we should meet again."

The men in the room winced, and she allowed herself a faint frown. Surely they realized her loss of control was a one-time occasion? She had no intention to do anything further to Trip than simply letting him know his choice of actions had been illogical, poorly conceived and highly unpleasant.

_And then where do we go?_

The thought was unbidden, but not unforeseen.

…

* * *

…

**Earth**

"This is highly irregular."

"I realize that. But we've gained a tremendous stride in the technological gap against the Romulans through the actions of these two alone. While the other agent wishes to remain in the service, commander Tucker was quite clear that this was a one-time occurrence. And frankly, I agree with him. Outside the missions he has already completed, the bureau simply has no need for him. Starfleet does." Harris leaned back slightly, waiting for a response.

Admiral Gardner disapproved, as was expected. The man had a bit of a chip on his shoulder about the Enterprise and her crew, and he allowed this to affect his decisions. There were times when Harris wished idly that his few equals and superiors in EarthGov and Starfleet could be as logical as the Vulcans, making their decisions based on what was good for Earth, the Coalition and the fleet instead of on whether or not they had been bypassed in a decision-making process years ago.

Forrest had never stated it out loud, bless his soul, but it was no great secret that Gardner was mainly irritated because the final decision to take the Enterprise out on her first journey coming on six years ago had been made without him by the government and Forrest in tandem. The man was arrogant and had a bit of an ego problem, and this slight had grown into a minor but noticeable vendetta against Archer and anyone working for him. Recently the man had started trying to reassign Archer's crew at whim, making seemingly reasonable requests without considering their need elsewhere. The only one he was making some headway with was the Vulcan, since her status in Starfleet was more precarious than that of the others.

"Frankly, I should court-martial him." Gardner pursed his lips peevishly, and tapped a finger on his desktop softly, with mild irritation blatant in his body language.

"You _could_, but you shouldn't. There's an old saying among the Denobulans that roughly translated says 'if your eye offends you, go see a healer'. A bit different from the saying _we_ have, and a lot more practical. If we court-martial him we cast light on the bureau and the fact that the admiralty and highest government officials know of the bureau, not to mention waste the finest engineering mind since Cochrane or Henry Archer."

Gardner was slowly turning around, but another nudge would be necessary. "I think we could charge him without exposing the bureau, don't you?"

"Honestly? No, sir, I doubt very much that we could. Personally, I think commander Tucker has performed his duty beyond and above the requirements of his service, and only the fact that his actions have to remain classified keeps him from getting the Star of Terra twice over. The _least_ we can do is put him back into regular service."

Again, Gardner hesitated. But he was already sold. And there was another undercurrent to his features, a feeble hint of attempted guile. The man had an idea, which was never good.

"All right. I'll allow it. You're right, he _should_ be rewarded..."

"I'll have some top minds work on a plausible explanation for his return. We'll be in touch."

Harris switched off the screen, triggering the system worm that would erase any log of his having ever spoken to the admiral. He frowned. Something about the way Gardner had acquiesced at the end rubbed him the wrong way. Nothing tangible, just a vague hint of wrongness. But in his business you learned to listen to hunches, or you ended up dead.

Finally he made his decision. Starfleet could not afford having a top ranking officer making decisions out of spite. Not in the middle of a war they were losing. He pushed a button on his comm. "Pike? I think we need a sanction on Gardner. I'll give you the details while you fly over. Harris out."

…

* * *

…

**News Bulletin, Global News Network, February 16th, 2156.**

(AP/Reuters) _According to Starfleet officials, a raid on a notorious Orion slaver compound in formerly Coridani space yielded fifteen rescued ex-slaves. Among the rescued were three humans, including former Starfleet officer commander Charles Tucker III..._

…

* * *

…

**Earth**

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"We have enough 'evidence' to prove it." Harris smirked. "Besides, you do look emaciated enough to fit the profile. We just need some make-up to produce bruises and minor cuts for a few press photos on your release from the hospital. Just what exactly did you _eat_ over there?"

Trip shrugged. "Not much. Romulan cuisine is made for people with copper-heavy blood and about as spicy as Vulcan food is mild. It's like they go out of their way to be as opposite as possible. There's this thing they do with a kind of noodles...let's just say the Cajun and the Thai could take a few lessons in burning out taste buds from them." He grimaced, remembering early on in their infiltration suffering from what Phuong had called the Romulan Two-Step. Those were not _fond_ memories.

"Well, whatever the reason, you're thin enough to fit the cover story. Don't worry, the doctors examining you are in on it."

Trip nodded. Then he remembered something. "...how're they gonna explain the blood?"

"Blood?"

"Didn't the Adigeon tell you? They could reverse most of the genetic alterations, and they got rid of the ears and brow, but my blood is still green. It'll stay that way for a few years before going away."

There was a long pause. "No. No, they _didn't_. I wish they _had_. But, I suppose as long as you don't get hurt visibly in front of someone not in on things, it'll be fine...just be careful. I'll ask our medical experts for a cover story and send it to you soon enough."

Suddenly he noticed the huge, insolent grin on Tucker's face, and closed his eyes tiredly. "...and you were joking. Damn it, Tucker, be _serious_."

"Sorry. I been waiting to do that for almost a year now, just to see your face." His face did turn serious, though. "So am I reinstated or what? You still haven't said anything about that."

It was time for Harris to look uncomfortable, now. "Well, you're reinstated in Starfleet, once you've signed some paperwork. But...not as a commander. They're promoting you to captain. Youngest one, yet."

Tucker gave him a blank stare. "Captain?"

"Right."

"...as in, my own command?"

"Precisely."

"..._why?_"

Exactly the question he'd dreaded. "Well, Starfleet says it's actually about time you got your own command. Your experience and expertise and the fact that you're not only experienced in commanding a bridge during duress but also happen to be one of the few Starfleet mid-level officers that are respected by Vulcans, Andorians _and_ Tellarites...well, frankly they asked why you hadn't been promoted earlier."

"Did you tell'em I was kinda dead?"

"Somehow that didn't factor in. They're giving you command of one of the first ships in the new Buran-class. You'll get the honor of naming her since she's not entirely done yet."

"Buran-class, huh? Not sure I like the sound of that." Trip leaned back in his chair, looking pensive. Harris didn't blame him.

"Well, I've pulled a few strings, and once the doctors clear you in a day or so, an old friend of yours will give you the grand tour."

"Yeah, I guess..."

…

* * *

…

**Starfleet Earth Orbital Space Docks**

"Damn. What in the name of Sam Clemens is _that_?"

Commodore Erika Hernandez grinned at Trip, who was standing by the large panoramic window overlooking the orbital shipyard, gawking at what was being worked on out there.

"Like it?"

"Ah..._can't_ say it's all that..._handsome_. It's no Enterprise. And it's kinda..._tiny_."

"Now, now, commander, size isn't everything."

He gave her a wry half-smirk. "Yeah, so we've been told for thousands of years. It's still tiny. Can't be room for a crew bigger'n thirty people, tops. And where's the engine, not done yet?"

"Forty, normally, and you're only seeing the disk section. There's a bit more to her."

"...where?"

"On the underside. Bottom. Keel. Y'know, I don't think _either_ of those terms really apply on starships. They're going to have to figure out new terminology for them, sooner or later."

He was frowning. "Huh. Wait, you mean there's..."

Her grin widened. "Want to see the rest?"

…

Twenty minutes later the small worker bee they were in slowed to a stop about fifty meters below the nearly completed ship above them. Through the scaffolding of the space dock you could see Earth rolling lazily by below, reflecting light into the shipyard. She leaned back, waving at the ship. "Well?"

He leaned forward. "_Holy_...is that the new...those nacelles, they _must_ be..." He stopped, gave her a frown. "It's still ugly."

She shrugged, taking out a padd and handing it to him. "Ugly, maybe. But she's got a few surprises."

For a long time he was more engrossed in the schematics and blueprints than the actual ship outside the bee, and his face went from suspicious to skeptic to pondering to thoughtful and finally a bit sad. "They - this is _my_ engine."

"It is. Turns out, when commander T'Pol went through your effects after your seeming death, she found several dozen padds with your design specs for a new warp engine, as well as hundreds of warp field equations, intermix ratios and matter/antimatter containment improvements. You certainly kept yourself busy."

It was his turn to shrug, his face red with embarrassment and mumbling his reply. "Well, always _kept_ myself occupied..."

"The nacelle designs are yours too, technically. Every suggestion you sent to Starfleet over the years, gathered together and sifted through for what would work in a single design. In a few decades they'll be a lot sleeker than that, but they got the basics of them down. Function over form, for now."

"...better armor round the plasma exhaust ports?"

"Got it."

"Mechanical _and_ pneumatic safety valves? We almost lost Malcolm with the damn pneumatics back in the Expanse...mechanical backups _would_ allow re-using the air in the-"

"They're there. The explosive bolts to separate damaged nacelles, the warp core evacuation protocols, your shutdown shortcuts, the new safety routines. _Everything_. Even those brand new shields the Vulcans finally shared with us, integrated from day one. They might as well call it the _Tucker_-class."

He stared at the padd, his face slowly darkening. "Okay, Erika, what's _really_ going on?"

She'd never understood why some people assumed Trip was stupid. Was it just the tall, corn-fed country-boy image a lot of people thought he was exuding? Was it the dialect, the cheerful open friendliness? No, Tucker was far from stupid. Jon knew that. According to Jon, the rest of the Enterprise crew knew that. Hell, his former engineering crews worshiped the ground the man walked on. Even _she_ had to admit a touch of admiration ever since she watched him do a space walk between two ships at high warp a year and a half ago. It took serious _cojones_ to do that.

So she went with honesty, since he'd already seen through the wining and dining.

"Gardner doesn't want you back on the Enterprise." There. She'd said it.

His frown became even deeper. "Why the hell not?"

Hesitating, she took the opportunity to set them on a slow pan and scan course, they'd be able to see all of the engine section and nacelles as well as the underside of the ship.

"He's...well, it's no big secret that he has a thing about Jon. And anyone associated with Jon. He's been trying to get the command crew reassigned for over a year, claiming their experience is better needed on the new ships being built, with the war effort and all. I know he's trying to get Sato into Intelligence, for one."

"She'd hate it. Code cracking is what she does when she got nothing better or more fun to do, like, I dunno, chewing her fingernails or watching dust bunnies form. She'd be bored to tears in ten minutes." _Also, last time she did any major code-cracking it wasn't exactly with her given consent. But that's not something we talk about._

"_You_ know that. _Jon_ knows that. _Gardner_ says keeping her in active duty on a starship on active combat call is 'wasteful of a valuable resource'." She adjusted their course slightly, not wanting to scratch the hull. "It's a petty little vendetta, and it's going to get someone hurt soon. Fortunately, so far the rest of the admiralty hasn't listened to him all that much. But in this, he's got veto. He can keep you from active duty indefinitely, or..."

"...or I take the promotion and the job away from Enterprise." He whistled slowly. "Pretty sneaky, sis."

"Pretty much." She looked at him. "You seen enough?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I guess I got some thinking to do, huh?"

"Oh yeah."

…

* * *

…

**Enterprise**

It had taken her only an hour to put her quarters back in a neat, livable state. Replacing what was broken took a little longer, but by now the small room looked much like it had before. She glanced at the plastic Frankenstein's monster figurine on the shelf. The odds of it surviving her lapse in restraint were extremely low. Yet it had. Perhaps there was something to learn there.

She still wasn't entirely certain why Trip's parents had insisted she keep it. According to Elaine, Trip had often mentioned her interest in the cinematic works of James Whale (the themes of alienation and being an outsider along with the running theme of free will and choice appealed to her), and so the gifting of the statue was an obvious one. She had refrained from mentioning to them that while Trip agreed somewhat with her assessment of the films, he had also pointed out that they also asked questions about science in itself. That sometimes knowing you _could_ do something was not reason enough to actually _do_ it.

Which had been yet another of his small jibes against her.

Her nostrils flared slightly as she realized she was indeed missing him. Oh, she had not forgiven him. _Yet_. While it was true she had spent an entire minute yesterday staring at the news bulletin received from Earth about his miraculous and highly improbable rescue, his return had also provoked emotions in her that she had been unable to suppress, to the point where she had behaved nearly as savagely as when she was suffering acute Trellium-D poisoning. She had no intention of simply taking him back, not after a year of letting her believe he was dead. Or, for that matter, severing the link the way he had.

It irked her, mildly, that the Aenar knew much more about psychic bonds than any Vulcan did. After all, Andorians were emotional, high-strung and impulsive, far more so than any human would ever be naturally. Yet the Aenar, in their peaceful, pacifist beliefs and calm, collected demeanors...they reminded her far too much of what her own people sought after, and still failed to achieve. Balance.

At the moment, she wished she had some of it. An irrational, illogical wish, but a wish all the same.

…

* * *

…

**Lavinius, city of Skrohb**

"We hope-wish for all-many-most of your kind-hives to ever-always be well-peaceful-fortunate. May our species-clusters-peoples join-merge-grow-adapt in alliance-association soon." Hoshi held down the urge to sigh with frustration. The primary Lavinian language was easy enough to decipher into a basic, understandable syntax as it was highly reminiscent of Finno-Ugrian languages on Earth, apart from the annoying fact that most abstract nouns had _at least_ two meanings. Sometimes starting at five. Just figuring out the connotations of the word 'happy' had given her a headache. There was happy-sad (being both pleased and wistful), happy-glad (joyful), happy-angry (gloating, and that one had taken quite some time to figure out)...and two more which were a bit more complicated than a mere binary combination. And that was _just_ the binary ones.

The new databases they had procured from traveling Kriosian merchants (another benefit of Tucker having _befriended_ their monarch was the preferred-trading status they now enjoyed with the entire Kriosian commonwealth) in the newly opened Expanse were fascinating, though, she had to admit that. Languages from sectors she had never even heard of, species they had never met and probably wouldn't for some time. What was a 'Khardazeyan', for example, and why had the Kriosians marked their data entries with warning signs? On the other hand she had her work cut out for her simply turning all these linguistic datum into something the universal translators could use.

She had to admit, she'd never had so much fun in all her life.

If only the Lavinian language wasn't so long-winded and droning and overly complex...

"...and so it is with great trepidation-hope-sorrow-joy that we bid you farewell-return-wellbeing-fair voyage, and that you may soon-quick-sudden find peace-wellbeing-enlightenment ever-always." The Lavinian ambassador bowed, his colorful plumage bristling slowly, and the ceremony was over. _Finally_.

As they approached the shuttlepods, Malcolm appeared in the opening, his face uncharacteristically lit up by a broad smile.

_He looks good when he's smiling._ She bit her lower lip. _Damn, this headache is killing me._"What's up? We're not going back up? _Please_ tell me we're going back up?"

The grin widened. "I just got the news. Here." He handed over a padd, containing the latest news transmissions from Earth.

She found herself staring at the screen, mouth open. Then she did something very unusual for her. She squealed, hugged the nearest person (a very surprised MACO) and laughed out loud. "He's alive!"

…

* * *

…

**Enterprise**

They all celebrated differently. Hoshi acted unusually giddy and bubbly the whole day. Malcolm _grinned_ a lot (frightening more than one of his immediate subordinates), and once his shift was over invited several off-duty MACOs to share a bottle of Skagaran tequila that Trip had given him back in the Expanse, and told them all tall tales of his returned friend...it was a slightly awkward affair at first, since no-one was used to seeing the reserved, prim and proper Englishman with a massive grin, telling them about the time Trip rescued a princess, or the time Trip crossed a desert with broken ribs and internal injuries, or...but alcohol and wild yarns (all entirely true, of course) eased the tension shortly and by the time he told the one about Tucker getting pregnant by means of a bowl of pebbles he had the grizzled bunch of soldiers red-faced with laughter.

Travis vanished to his 'sweet spot', and some of the engineering crew reported hearing Muddy Waters played at high volumes from that area. Captain Archer invited _all_ his senior officers to the daily lunch, something previously only offered to the command officers such as T'Pol and lieutenant commander Hess. Hess, in turn, bedecked engineering with improvised streamers, though she kept everything else entirely professional...just in case.

T'Pol was...T'Pol. Utterly methodical, calm, with only the occasional raised eyebrow denoting any kind of response to comments. Carver down in Hydroponics claimed she had seen her humming softly to herself while heading back to her quarters, but Carver always had wild stories about their Vulcan XO. After the one where she claimed T'Pol had been seen sneaking pieces of pecan pie out of chef's galley every now and then, well...everyone stopped taking her all that seriously.

More heed was given to the rumor that T'Pol had been..._upset_. Though why she had reacted like that a week _before_ the reveal...

…

* * *

…

**Earth**

Trip sat back, looking out the port hole at the space dock two kilometers north of the Starfleet quarantine station where he was undergoing yet another set of tests to make sure the genetic alterations still in his system wouldn't come back and bite him on the ass. It had been a bit of a shock to see the otherwise arrogant and seemingly unassailable Adigeon become flustered as their reversing of the alterations...failed to take hold. The blood was red, his stomach not so uneasy all the time, and he'd gotten his old sense of smell back as well as the hearing (thank God) and his sense of touch was dialed down to sensible levels again...but they hadn't managed to flush the muscle-fibers of the alterations.

Not entirely.

He was nowhere near as strong as a Vulcan man, or a Romulan one for that matter. In fact, at the moment he was closer to the old Tucker strength than he had been even before the genetic surgeries. But he did find it a bit easier to move these days. And considering he needed to bulk up and eat properly until he no longer looked like a San Francisco food riots survivor, well, he'd be a _bit_ sturdier than normal when he'd gained a few pounds back.

No, what had worried the Adigeon had been the little markers in his genome that denoted aging. In a Vulcan, or Romulan, those markers were one of the most obvious signs of having alien origin, and so they had perhaps been a bit too thorough in mucking about with them, because when it came time to muck things back...well, that's when they started glancing at him and whispering, and finally nervously apologizing while fluttering their feathers.

The Adigeon held great pride in the way they always honored agreements to the very letter of the contract, no more, no less. Apparently, failing to uphold a single section of the deal was very much the equivalent of farting in an elevator, embarrassing and prone to being blamed on everyone else. They weren't even sure if this meant he would age slower...or _faster_. He certainly hoped it was the former.

But this was all a distraction. What was really worrying him right now was the fact that he was going to accept the promotion. Not because he wanted to...but because it was the only way to stay in Starfleet. That, and the fact that he'd be spending his first captaincy commanding what amounted to a warp-capable hot rod. No engineer worth his salt would turn down the opportunity to tear up some interstellar tarmac. He wasn't too fond of not having his own choice of command crew, but war always makes for exceptions to the rules. At this point, whoever gained command of a ship took what was offered, period.

A ship needs to be given a suitable name. They'd given _him_ the dubious honor of doing so, and he was stumped. Another week before the maiden voyage, and he couldn't figure out a name. Cochrane was taken. So was Copernicus, Da Vinci, Brahe and Ericsson. So...engines. Engines...he grinned. He remembered a lecture from an old high school teacher about societies that could have made the leap into industrialism long before the rest of the world and hadn't due to lack of production means or societal ossification. The story about an engineer who invented a primitive steam engine in an age when slaves did all physical labor...

He wrote the name down. Yeah. That'd do just _fine_.

…

* * *

…

**Dagger of S'Lar**

"The Enterprise is moving out of orbit. Do we engage?"

Valdore shook his head. "No. We have a surprise for the Federation flagship. Follow them into warp, but beyond their sensor range. When I order it, you will transmit this coded signal to the coordinates I specify."

"As you command."

…

* * *

…

**TBC**


	5. Kobayashi Maru

Heron of Alexandria, also known as Hero of Alexandria, was a Greek philosopher and engineer who constructed the first recorded steam engine.

_Heronas_ is derived from his name.

...

* * *

...

**USS Heronas, Starfleet Earth Orbital Space Dock, T Minus 72 Hours**

"...and here we have the crew compartments. Not much space, but it'll do. The galley is also the rec room, by the by."

The captain looked around. Not much space indeed. Enough room to keep ten people dining comfortably, or the whole crew seated uncomfortably. No movie nights, then, unless you had them in shifts. Shifts would work...

"Do we have a real chef or just food synthesizers?"

Crewman Jonsson nodded. A slightly tubby blonde in charge of cargo bay and shuttlepod maintenance (which was the same space, really), the crewman had been given the job of showing the new captain around the ship. So far he had been prattling on non-stop with barely a breath, personal anecdote after personal anecdote and more than a little blathering about whatever bad three-dee adventure was currently popular. No taste for the classics, this one.

"Well, yeah. Nothing fancy, but he'll keep us fed. So how about I show you the captain's quarters?"

"Lead on."

The Swede hesitated. "Uh...I don't know if anyone told you about..."

"The quarters being a bit badly planned? They mentioned it. How bad is it?"

"It's...not good, sir."

…

"Oh, good lord. They _said_ it was bad, I just didn't _realize_..."

"Yessir."

_Captain_ Charles 'Trip' Tucker (the Third) stared in horror at the captain's cabin. Okay, this was _ridiculous_. The ship could _barely_ house the forty-man crew in the ship because storage was at a premium, and his own cabin was...

"Christ, the _cap'n_ had a smaller room than this."

"Yessir."

_Wait, _I'm_ the cap'n now, aren't I? Right._

"Tucker to Maintenance."

"_Maintenance here."_

"Yeah, I'm seeing a _definite_ design flaw right here, Gibbs...mind sending a couple guys up here to take measurements? We're gonna have to cut my cabin down to size a few meters..." he glanced over at Jonsson. "What's next door?"

"Storage space, Jeffries tube to the lifepods, then the XO quarters."

"Damn. Which is on which side?"

Jonsson pointed to the one wall, the one with the little pointless glass cabinet with ship models of every starship class in Starfleet. Enough room for a proper work station there...

"On that side, Jeffries tube and storage room. We keep mainly standard maintenance parts in the storage, anything important is in the secure cargo compartments belowdecks." He pointed to the other side. "On that end, XO's quarters, turbolift shaft. The lift isn't installed yet, so it's ladders until it is."

Trip frowned. "Not installed yet? We're less than two hundred hours from disembarking, we're supposed to be heading for the Expanse in a _week_. Why's everything so damned late?"

"The war, sir. You _might_ have heard the news that we're currently fighting the Romulans? Most resources are given to the production of the older classes like the Daedalus and Neptunes, new classes like the Buran and NX are just too expensive so they keep them on the backlogs."

Well, that answered _that_. But he didn't become the youngest chief engineer in Starfleet history by waiting for things to happen.

"Backlogs. Huh. Well, why don't you get on back down to your station, see if they've gotten us the shuttlepod we were supposed to have yesterday. I have some calls to make..."

…

_"I can't do that, Trip. We're swamped, here, and we just got a dozen new work orders for shield emitters. No can do. You'll get the elevators when they're done, no sooner."_

Commander David Okwole leaned back in his seat, looking smug.

"Right. And you don't happen to have two spares in warehouse 15 just lying about, do you?"

There was a long pause.

_"...how did you know about that?"_

"Oh, come on, Dave. I worked for you for three months back when I was a greenhorn working the ropes. I know you have two spares of _everything_ in warehouse 15."

Trip waited, not wanting to push too hard. It was an art, really. Negotiating for parts had always been something of a necessity, and now it seemed all those years wrangling for plasma injectors and haggling over conduits and sealant valves would pay off.

_"...well, it seems we do have a spare unit or-" _He gave Trip a sour look._ "...two. Fancy that. Unfortunately, I can't-"_

"Singapore. May 13th, 2149."

The pause was positively pregnant this time.

_"...don't do this, Trip."_

"I think her name was May. Or was it..._Roger_?"

_"...I hate you."_

"Hate me all you like, Dave. Just get me my turbolift. Oh, and the shuttlepod that you put away for that cargo hauler. I'm sure whatever captain friend of yours is plying the Earth-Mars run can do without one extra pod, don't you?"

Okwole's face had darkened considerably, no mean feat for a Masai. _"You know, that's blackmail, Trip."_

"Didn't bother you that time you got Timmons in space dock to get you that case of Andorian ale from his personal stash, way back when." He grinned. "Oh, and I got tons of things like Singapore to hold over your head, so don't try and short-change me again, okay?"

_"Fine. You'll have them both today. Would you like me to send some of my precious staff along to install it so Starfleet can wait another week on their next Daedalus?"_

"Nope. Just ship it. Tucker out."

He leaned back, idly toying with the Lon Chaney Wolfman figurine he'd bought in San Francisco to match the Frankenstein's monster (he'd forgotten he didn't have that one any more). Victory. Sweet victory...

…

* * *

…

**Earth Cargo Authority Convoy, Gamma Hydra System, T Minus 68 Hours**

"Thirteen hundred, ninety three bottles of beer on the wall, thirteen hundred ninety three bottles of beer, if one of those bottles..._hello_, what _do_ we have _here_?"

Kojiro Vance was not what one would call...handsome. At the age of sixty-three, you usually settled for 'grizzled', or possibly 'well-preserved'. But you didn't live this long captaining a Warp 2 cargo ship by being dashing or flamboyant, you got to this point by working hard, keeping your head down (especially if there were Nausicaans about) and getting the cargo to where it was supposed to.

And occasionally cooperating with friends.

Four ships plied the Gamma Hydra-Earth route, and usually their schedules kept them wide apart. But with the Expanse open for business and traders from all around begging for rare Terran goods like chocolate, cheap vodka and various knickknacks, sooner or later you had to take on a big one.

Although just exactly why a Tellarite merchant wanted over fifty thousand crates of bobble-head dog statues of various breeds was a bit of a mystery even to him. Aliens could be really strange sometimes. Which brought him back to the present.

"Breaker breaker, this is _Kobayashi Maru_ calling _Devlin McGregor_ and _Serenity Valley_, please respond."

The reply came near instantaneously, though oddly weak and tinny, as if they were passing over a sunspot or something.

_"_McGregor_ here, what's up Vance?"_

Leaning forward, he read the tiny script on the lidar screen, frowning. "I have a bogey, coordinates...I dunno, I'll just send them over."

_"Lost your reading glasses again, huh? That's okay, Vance, senility does that to you."_

"You kids get offa my lawn. You got it?"

After a drawn-out moment, the response came back positive.

_"I have it, but I'll be damned if I know what it is. No comets, planetoids, rogue moons or meteors supposed to be out there. Mass looks weird, and I'm getting heat readings off of that lump."_

"That's what I thought. _Serenity Valley_, you seeing this too?"

_"I was in _bed_."_

"Sorry." No he wasn't. Bell had been smug for _weeks_ now about being newlywed and all.

_"With my _wife_. What's so damned...oh, I see it. Weird."_

_"Weird doesn't even begin to cut it."_ That was Cordoba, on the _McGregor_. _"I think it's moving."_

Vance looked at his screen. "Yeah, you're right. It's moving along..." He paled. "...our trajectory."

Bell said it first._ "Pirates. Shit."_

Before he even knew what he was doing consciously, captain Vance had slammed the all stations button and was speaking into the ship's PA. "All hands to stations, we have possible pirate sighting, I repeat, all hands to stations. Murphy, get your butt up here and man the guns. Engineering, I want every single ounce of power to hull plating and engines you can give me, got it?"

He stared at the big dot on the screen, feeling his heart sink into his stomach as the big dot suddenly deformed and then turned into many, _many_ small dots. And at this distance, those small dots were much bigger than he would like.

A younger captain might have let pride rule, waiting to the last second to call for help. But Kojiro Vance had lived this long knowing that if anyone was around that could help...you damn well called them. Especially if the help was free. His free hand reached over to his side and pushed the button launching their emergency log buoy. The sheer momentum of it would carry it out of the system in minutes...and hopefully someone nearby would be listening.

Now all he had to do was get their butts to the nearby colony and hope the Tellarites had better defenses than they did...

…

* * *

…

**Enterprise, T Minus 67 Hours**

_"...repeat, this is the _Kobayashi Maru_ of the Earth Cargo Authority, our convoy is under...multiple ships of unknown...repeat, under attack, please respond..."_

Jonathan Archer glanced around at his bridge crew. Everyone knew what this meant. The ship was almost a day away from the convoy, even at high warp. Unless they took a shortcut through a couple of nebulae with unknown qualities. No, there was no question of what the decision had to be.

"Travis, set a course for the Gamma Hydra system. Through the Charybdis Reef."

The young helmsman barely even hesitated. "Course laid out, captain."

"Then take us there. Maximum warp." He leaned down and pushed the button for engineering. "Hess? I want every ounce of power into shields, hull plating and engine. Everything else is secondary."

"Affirmative."

…

* * *

…

**Dagger of S'Lar, T Minus 63 Hours**

"They've taken the bait. Send the signal."

Commodore Valdore smiled, for the first time in many weeks. Such a simple trap, and the humans were walking right into it. If this worked, they'd use the trap again and again until the Terrans were afraid of their own shadows. Add to this the new cloaks being utilized in the border regions...yes. The war would be won, through discipline, cunning and ruthlessness. And once Earth had fallen, they could turn their attention to their wayward cousins, then the blueskins, then the snouted ones...and then the Klingons, who by then would be properly turned on themselves...

"Long live the Empire."

…

* * *

…

**USS Heronas, Starfleet Earth Orbital Space Dock, T Minus 60 Hours**

"...and that's the whole story."

Charles Tucker Jr and his wife Elaine looked at him, clearly worried.

_"You look so thin, honey. You been eating well?"_

_"Of course he has, darling, but he's just come out of a slaver compound, they probably fed him nothing but water and bread. Right?"_

"Something like that, dad. Anyway, I just wanted to finally set the record straight. They didn't let me talk to anyone while in the hospital, and things just got so stressed out that I haven't really had any luck getting a moment to myself." He glanced back, glaring at the workmen tinkering away on his quarters. "As you can see."

_"That's all right, Trip. We got a bit of a chock when they told us you'd been found alive and well, but we got over it. It was sort of nice to have some good news after..."_

_After Elizabeth and then me. God, I feel like such a cad. I hate lying to them._ "Yeah. I guess. Anyway, I'll be busy like h..." _No, mom never liked hearing you cuss._ "...heck, so I won't be able to talk to you a whole lot after this. I'll write, though. Every chance I get."

_"You do that, Trip. We'll see you on your first shore leave, I hope."_

"Yeah. Bye mom, bye dad. Love you both."

The link went dead, and he sat back, rubbing his face with his fingers. So damned tired. Everything needed signing, delegating, ordering, cajoling, bribing, threatening. He was starting to remember why he'd refused all his offered promotions before. Damn Gardner. Couldn't he have let well enough alone? The man wouldn't know crew coherence if it bit him on the posterior.

Trying to take his mind off things, he glared at the crew manifest. Most of the bridge crew had arrived and were helping out in the final stages. Sawyer was making the last minute calibrations on their phase cannon coils and the single torpedo launcher. She was a fine engineer, an excellent tactical officer and according to her file she held the current academy Golden Glove title for women. She was also a gab who never shut up and made jokes at every opportunity. Still, she'd been professional enough while working, so hopefully she kept the stand-up routines for off-duty.

Nessler was a bit of a mystery. Quiet, dour, laconic. German. No accent, which was weird. Okay, so Sato didn't either, but she was...well, she was kind of unique. The only people who worked this hard at removing their accents were news anchors or...spies.

_Can't really fault him for that, can you Trip? No sir, that I cannot. A total of seventy-six men and women, Trip, most of them Romulan. Surely you don't think you're the only man to feel guilt over your decisions?_

Even so, he'd keep an eye on the man. A comms officer that barely spoke...was not a recipe he cared for.

As for Wong...the man had promise, if he could pull the stick out of his ass and quit toadying up to the upper echelons. He did his duties flawlessly, carried out any order, flew like a dream according to the file...and always watched Trip and the others for flaws. He'd seen the type before. Milligan, on _Columbia_, had been exactly the same. A minor crewman who had been constantly on the lookout for promotions, for any chance to get ahead. Last he heard the man had been assigned to the _Gideon_, a Neptune-class on the front lines. Lots of quick advancement opportunities there. Along with the chances of sudden, horrible death.

Still, if he could wean Wong off the brown-nosing and get him to loosen up and get him to realize your crew was your family for which you did everything, _everything_, to keep them alive...he'd be an excellent officer.

_Right after I teach the Klingon High Council to whistle Dixie._

A loud crash behind him caused him to refuse to turn around. "...that was the model display cabinet, wasn't it?"

"...yessir. Sorry sir."

"Just...just clean it up, would ya? Have the pieces sent to whoever decided it should be installed in the first place."

_I need...pie. I really, really need some pie. Pecan. Or possibly peach._

_And T'Pol._

…

* * *

…

**Earth Cargo Authority Convoy, Gamma Hydra System, T Minus 56 Hours**

"Damage report!"

"We have leaks on all cargo holds, the scrubbers are working full time, and the warp coils are burnt. We're going nowhere _fast_. The Tellarites are sending their own ships, but..."

"But _what?_" Vance resisted the urge to call his first mate names. Blame never helped.

"...but it's not much. They're just traders, Kojiro. It's a couple of Klirrp-class orbital fighters and an old frigate that should have been junked twenty years ago."

"I see."

"At least they got a message off to their own authorities. Hopefully someone is close enough to catch it and get here in time."

Something was strange about all this. According to lidar screens and sensor sweeps, the pirates were ridiculously under-armed (well, against ships tougher than the freighters), but also disciplined and methodical...almost like a military force. But they also hadn't made any final moves on the three ships. Just quick strafing runs to keep them from going anywhere. By all rights they should have all been dead hours ago, even with the piffling weapons sported by the pirate fighters.

_What are they waiting for?_

…

* * *

…

**Enterprise, Charybdis Reef Nebulae, T Minus 53 Hours**

Travis Mayweather rarely felt personally alarmed about any of the missions they undertook. Fighting Klingons? Well, it was important, but only because it affected the ship and his friends. The Expanse? A bit moreso. Suliban? Temporal cold wars and such things were beyond his pay grade, and as long as it affected him directly and the ship, he'd do anything possible to stop them.

But _this_...

In a different universe, this could just as easily be the _Horizon_ under attack, waiting for a rescue that might be way too late.

So he put the pedal to the metal and tried to ignore all the damage reports and warning lights and klaxons caused by riding the ship through what amounted to an interstellar cloud of various acids and ionizing compounds. Results mattered. Besides, it was his job to _pilot_ the ship. Everything else was up to the others.

…

* * *

…

**_Heronas_, Earth Space Dock, T Minus 48 Hours**

"...and if we can just get the warp-core online in the next couple hours we'll be leaving the dock by noon. A week ahead of projections, I might add."

_"...but a week and a half after schedule. I know. But I'm afraid there's been a change of plans for you."_

Trip blinked. Admiral Black was always honest, true to a fault and sometimes a bit too rough around the edges to truly be in the admiralty. This should be good...

"Change of plans? You mean we're not leaving space dock yet?"

_"Oh, no, far from it. But you're going to have to get warp online while leaving. We have received some disturbing news. An ECA freighter convoy in Tellarite space right next to the Expanse has reported they're under attack by organized pirates. The Enterprise is underway, but besides them there's only one ship fast enough to get there in time. However, the Tellarite colony they were headed for have also reported the attack, and it appears..."_

The admiral looked behind the comm at something out of sight, then nodded._ "...it appears as if these pirates may be anything but. So far they seem to be herding the freighters, keeping them as slow targets. The message they sent to the Tellarite War Ministry indicated that their planetary sensor arrays managed to catch a glimpse of what appears to be at least one bigger ship of Romulan make standing by before their communications were jammed."_

Trip felt his mouth go dry. "Romulans? How many?"

_"Unknown. It's a trap, captain."_

"Does captain Archer know?"

_"I'm afraid he took a shortcut through the so-called Charybdis Reef. The nebulae are quite efficiently blocking all communications in and out so he'll be right on time for his own execution. So either you get going right now, or you'll have to look for a different first officer."_

"Yessir."

They exchanged the usual goodbyes, and Trip immediately got on the comms to the so-called bridge. "Wong. I want a pre-flight check right now, and a recall of all personnel outside the hull. We're leaving within the hour."

_"Sir?"_

"Just do it. Orders from the admiralty."

_"Yessir."_

…

* * *

…

**Dagger of S'Lar, Gamma Hydra System, T Minus 47 Hours**

"Sir, the Enterprise is approaching the target area."

"Excellent. Join the battle group and continue monitoring. When they reach the cargo vessels, I want the group to divide into the three I have detailed. Talon will be the command group, Pinion will be our shield, and Claw will use the sun as a screen for coming up on their flank."

"Yessir."

Valdore's smile was slowly turning into a ruthless grin. Revenge was sweet. And nothing the Terrans did could stop them...

…

* * *

…

**TBC**


	6. Kobayashi Maru To You Too

**Author's Notes:** Yes, of course I meant mess hall/mess deck instead of galley (horrifyingly I even _know_ all the right terms, being born and raised in two/three of the biggest ports in Sweden). I blame a brain fart, or possibly crewman Jonsson. He's a bit of an idiot. Also, yes, that's one of Trips' Eighth Wonder of the World shirts (so bright you can see them from orbit!) that T'Pol keeps in her spare stasis unit.

**Reviews: **Thanks for all the kind words! I suspect the story hasn't gotten reviewed more because, well, I _am_ still fairly new in the community, and people often go more with familiar things. As for Trip's reasoning for what he did, well, grief can make you stupid, and Harris is _very_ good at manipulating people. Also; Trip without T'Pol? Pshyeah _right_...

...

* * *

...

_-Brief Interlude. Please put on some nicely soothing pause music while you wait. Klingon opera is most appropriate in this case. Thank you.-_

**Hall of Duras, Qo'noS, T Minus 47 Hours**

"I have studied the humans."

Klugh, son of Duras, sneered viciously. "Humans. _Pfagh!_ They're cowards, all of them. What could you _possibly_ learn by studying _them_, mother?"

Govh, daughter of Gragh, glared at him. One more such blatantly disrespectful comment and he would feel her _fist_. "You would be surprised, _boy_. They have a long tradition of being warriors, one which they would still be maintaining if they had not allied with the Vulcans."

He scoffed, and she snarled. Realizing he was displeasing her, he backed down a little, though not so much as to appear weak.

"I take it you have a purpose for this _revelation_?"

"I do. Among some _human_ peoples, killing a foe was deemed too easy, too simple to prove a true warrior's mettle. Instead, they performed something known as...'counting coup'. In which they would creep up on a fully armed and aware enemy and touch them lightly...and then try to get away unharmed."

He frowned, which was an impressive sight in a species whose head mostly consisted of one giant frown. "What does that mean?"

This time she _did_ hit him. A good, solid punch that sent him sprawling to the floor. "It means that the vermin humans have 'counted coup' on the House of Duras twice! _Twice! _And then they killed Duras himself when he was already dishonored, as if he was only worth slaying when he no longer held faith with the High Council!"

Klugh rubbed his broken nose carefully. His mother rarely got angry enough to actually strike him, but when she did... "Well, what do you want from _me?_ I command a _freighter_ thanks to his dishonor, I can no more avenge him than I can turn the skies blue or make Kahless rise from the dead!"

"Your whining offends our ancestors. But you're half right. From where you stand, you can do no harm to our enemy. Which is why I have arranged for that to change. Soon you will command a small Bird-of-Prey, and from there you will have the opportunity to strike all those who insulted the House of Duras! The human captain, the Vulcan renegade and the Andorian soldier. They shall all fall before us!"

For a long time neither spoke, instead they roared and cheered incoherently...until finally a modicum of reason prevailed.

"So...when do we start?"

Govh looked slightly embarrassed. "In about a year."

Beat.

"Possibly less."

_-End Interlude.-_

_...you can turn the opera off now. Please._

…

* * *

…

_"alone and it's here it's this thunder_  
_ the thunder oh thunder_  
_ oh!_

_ jesus built my car_  
_ it's a love affair_  
_ mainly jesus and my hot rod"_

-Ministry, "Jesus built my hot rod"

...

**Starfleet Earth Orbital Space Dock, T Minus 46 Hours**

It was a sight gifted to few people who did not work at space dock: the sight of a new starship never before seen leaving her struts and moorings behind and embarking upon her first mission. Lieutenant Ferris had always joked how they should install automated sub-routines with some bombastic orchestral music in everyone's comm gear whenever this happened, just so nobody missed it. For some strange reason no-one had taken him up on this idea.

Still, he watched dutifully as the USS _Heronas_ was detached from mooring cables, struts and wires, as magnetic clamps released and as all worker bees and EVA-suited personnel got out of the way for Starfleet's first hot rod. After all, it was his job.

The nickname had stuck. Oh, everyone knew it was 'a radical new design', or 'a new implementation of field-tested tried and true solutions'. Still, it was a hot rod.

The delta-shape of a Neptune was characteristic and sleek, the wide disc and backslung engines of an NX were equally so, and the Daedalus...well, someone in supplies & maintenance had had a giggle fit while inventing new nicknames for the shape. 'Meat & Veg' was the least crude one.

But the Buran-class...well, it was a disk. Under which someone had bolted a massive engine, bigger than on an NX, and a pair of tricked-out warp nacelles. The general impression was of someone slapping together the biggest engine they could think of, and then realizing afterwards that the engine needed a crew and somewhere to point it, so a disk had been bolted to the top of it.

Gildanas in docking had said that off course they had to put the disk on top, if they put it in the rear it'd get left behind by sheer inertia first time they went to warp, and putting it on front like an NX would have the engine smashing through it in the same situation. Zhang brought up the question of why they didn't put it underneath, which according to Gildanas was because no man alive could look up at that big engine and not feel...inadequate.

All the women in the galley had laughed themselves sick at that one. Gildanas especially.

Be that as it may, he had to admit it moved like a damn barracuda.

…

"Steady as she goes, one quarter impulse. Get us clear of orbit before we put her in first gear." Trip was seated in the cramped rear seat of the cockpit-like bridge, idly wondering if he should take the chair down to engineering for an overhaul. Maybe a cup holder...

"Aye sir, steady as she goes."

There were differences from captain to captain. Trip had been around long enough to see that. Archer was always keeping an eye on his crew, always asking questions, always working on the next step ahead. Hernandez kept the eyes on the money. She made her plans in advance and carried them out, trusting everyone implicitly to do their duties without complaints. Both styles had their own pros and cons. Archer could sometimes feel as if he was second-guessing you, even though he was really asking because he wanted to know. He liked being in the loop at all times. Hernandez sometimes trusted people too far, not bothering to check if the capacity was there. While that made for crew that felt like they could do anything, when they failed they would come down hard.

They both knew about their flaws, and tried to compensate. He'd realized fairly quickly that Jon didn't walk Porthos just to give the dog exercise. The treadmills at the gym could do that easily in half the time. No, it was his way of making his presence known, showing he was mortal, and just checking the overall mood. Hernandez did her daily routine in a more circumspect manner. She asked up front the various command crew what was going on in their departments, generally during breakfast or dinner in her quarters.

Both were far better than Jeffreys had ever been. The man was a menace to discipline and morale, ignoring both in favor of personal self-aggrandizement. Everyone who had worked for him at the same time as Trip still remembered how the man wanted to rename Jeffries-tubes to Jeffreys-tubes for no apparent reason.

As for himself, he couldn't say, but it was possible that he was the one starship captain in Starfleet who had an eye on a padd hooked up to the engine diagnostics. It was technically against current procedure, but since the padd was plugged into the diagnostics framework through a low-tech optical cable, it passed muster.

He glanced at it again and hit the comms. "Bridge to engineering."

"_Engineering here." _

"Gutierrez, I think I found the problem. Check the injectors again. Notice anything funny?"

"_...yeah. The seals are loose. How'd you-"_

"Experience, kid. Lots of experience. Tighten it, then try again."

It felt a bit funny to call a man almost his own age 'kid', but he sure as hell _felt_ a lot older than anyone on the crew. When they were in high school he was finishing his college degree, when they started in the academy he was fixing boat engines to work up money to pay for his next degree. By the time they graduated he had speeded through advanced warp field theory and gotten to work with Jon, when they were getting their first postings he was chief engineer on the fastest ship in Starfleet. And all that differed was four-five years or so.

He felt old. Briefly. Then he smiled as he heard a familiar low-grade hum rumbling through the hull. Warp core online.

_Sweet music to my ears._

"We clear yet? Good. Get us warp two, and hold it until we've passed Mars. Then slowly raise the warp factor to the max, one point per fifteen seconds." If it was a maiden voyage, might as well start her out slow. Even if he was in a bit of a hurry.

_I'm coming, darling. Just you wait and see._

"Nessler, I want you to send a message to these ships; The _Constellation_, the _Taurus_, the _Falcon_, the _Kennebunkport_, the..."

…

* * *

…

**_Enterprise_, Gamma Hydra System, T Minus 46 Hours**

"We're approaching the colony now. Sensors show a Tellarite colony on Gamma Hydra IV, and energy discharges in the upper atmosphere."

"Seems the distress call was tried and true. Any luck getting comms back on line?"

Hoshi shook her head. "No, sir. The sub-space transmitters are fried. That last ion storm in Charybdis really did a number on us, we'll be lucky to have it back up in an hour."

Captain Archer leaned forward. "So no telling them they're being rescued. Well, they'll know soon enough. Any luck going through the sensor logs from the freighters?"

T'Pol glanced at her readouts. "The ships attacking them appear to be mostly small orbital fighters, none of which have warp capacity. Their weaponry consists mostly of low-yield disruptors and micro-fission bombs."

You could have heard a pin drop.

Reed was the first to speak. "Pocket-nukes? They're using _thermonuclear_ weapons?" The incredulity at the use of something so barbaric was universal among the crew, not one of whom were without stories to tell of great grandparents surviving World War Three and the nuclear holocaust it had brought.

"It appears so. It could explain why we did not receive any further transmissions from the freighters or the colony, seeing as the electromagnetic pulses and radiation would make most communications forms impossible for some time after."

Archer didn't want to let the mood fester, however. "All hands to battle stations. I want a good clean fight, and I want the transporters ready and kept running in case we have to beam out personnel. And try to get comms back. Starfleet needs to know about this."

…

_I'm coming, darling. Just you wait and see._

T'Pol blinked.

_-Trip?_

No, it couldn't be. He had made his distaste for the bond quite clear, first making light of it after the Orion incident and then severing it for a year and falsifying his own demise after the death of baby Elizabeth. Her nostrils flared slightly as she had to take a deep breath to calm herself. It was obvious he had no deeper regard for the concept of them as mates.

And yet...these _flashes_. Quick glimpses of his voice, little rushes of alien, human emotions, sometimes brief visions during meditation or sleep. Much like directly after the bond was restored, only highly unreliable. Perhaps...perhaps it was testament to the bond being stronger on her side than on his. Irrationally, she hoped this was not so.

She turned her attention back to the task at hand, cleaning up the grainy visual records they had received in the data package from the _Kobayashi Maru_. They would reach the ship within minutes, and she needed some sort of idea of what to expect, to give to the captain. Something. Anything.

_I don't want to transfer to the Copernicus. I have no desire to return to Vulcan service, either. I find the idea of working alongside an all-Vulcan crew again distasteful. _

She magnified a section of the image, enhanced the resolution, then set an algorithm to work cleaning out distortion and visual detritus.

_I want Trip._

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Enhancing the image further would take a few minutes.

_But that doesn't mean I won't let him know that his actions were unconscionable._

…

* * *

…

**_Heronas_, In Transit, T Minus 44 Hours**

"Warp five and holding, sir."

"I got eyes. Keep increasing warp factor."

He felt the mood on the bridge change. Yeah, they'd definitely have to redesign this bit. Maybe raise the bridge higher. The disk wouldn't look as sleek, but it'd be preferable to this.

"Sir, even the Enterprise never reached more than five point-"

"I know what she did, lieutenant. I was there. The engine held because me and my crew held it together. And I also know that on paper, what I designed for this engine was warp six point five marching speed with warp seven a possibility. Now we may not reach that _today_. But a lot of people are depending on us making it to Gamma Hydra as soon as possible, and I'll be _damned_ if we're not gonna get there. Now keep increasing warp factor. I'll let you know when to stop."

_And I hope like hell that I won't be the shortest-lived captain in Starfleet._

…

_"...warp six point two, and holding. She won't last long at this speed, though."_

"She'll last long enough. Good work, Gutierrez. Tell Sawyer to start preparing a repair crew for when we drop to impulse, later, though."

_Damn, that's gonna be awkward. Sawyer at tactical, Sawyer in engineering. No problem telling them apart, one likes blowing stuff up and punching people, the other tinkers. And one's female, one's male. Still..._

He released the comm. "Sawyer? Anything people call you? For short?"

She glanced back, clearly surprised. "Sir? Uh...I guess my family and friends call me Eddie."

"Thanks." He looked at the padd in his lap. Okay, so the Vulcans had not actually given their _own_ shields to Starfleet, they'd just shared the power requirements and methods of creating stable, shaped forcefields, and let the humans do the actual work on their own. Added to research done by, among others, Malcolm Reed (_go Malcolm_), the results were not as strong as the shields used on Vulcan cruisers, but definitely less prone to overloads and cascade failures. Human-made shield emitters didn't pack the juice of their pointy-eared equivalents, but they didn't really risk burning out if hammered hard, either.

What that _meant_ was that you could overclock them, briefly, without risking burning out the systems. Even though the current power couplings weren't set up for such a crazy move, it was something to ponder. Looking at the warp core there was a hell of a lot of waste energy going into everything else on the ship, or simply leaking off as heat on the aft flanges. Which explained why the shuttlepod bay was so damn hot all the time.

_Maybe if you plug the excess warp core energy into the shields, without actually making them dependent on the core, you could... _"I'm gonna go back to the ops room for a while. Wong, you have the bridge."

…

"This is crazy. We're gonna fly apart at this rate."

Sawyer opened her mouth to protest, but it was Nessler who spoke, surprising everyone.

"He knows what he's doing. Running the engines hot is dangerous in the long run, but for speed runs like this?" Noticing their looks, he shrugged. "Am I the only one who reads our captain's published essays?"

Wong, by dint of being located at the very front, wished for not the first time that the bridge hadn't been designed by some aeronautics engineer. Most starships had bridges built for human interaction, everyone able to look at everyone. This one was built for a bomber crew or something. And right now he really wished he could look at Nessler.

"Even so, we're breaking the speed record here, and nobody's gonna _know_ if we shatter to pieces before we can tell anyone."

"Actually, the Warp 7 Project in Cape Canaveral broke Warp six point five last month. Just not, you know, officially."

The cabin fell silent.

"...really?"

"Yeah."

"...how do _you_ know?

"I have friends in low places."

…

Trip glanced at the readouts while his hands busily flew across consoles, his mind racing. A parallel junction, the tunneling was already there, set up extra conduits and breakers...

_Warp six point three._

The floor rattled, slightly.

_No, don't worry yet. This is what the Enterprise felt like when we hit four point seven._

There would have to be limiters of some sort, a set of extra heat flanges. It'd look vaguely like little fins...the thought made him smile, briefly.

_Well, it _is_ a hot rod..._

_Six point four. We're officially the fastest starship in Starfleet right now._

Glancing at a different readout he confirmed his own suspicions. At this speed they'd reach Gamma Hydra before tomorrow morning. But at this speed they also had to keep an extra eye alert in case something went wrong. The Buran-class was built to take a beating and the engines were built to break records. Maybe not right out of space dock, though.

There was a grinding, squealing noise coming from somewhere starboard, and the lights flickered, briefly. The comms beeped.

_"Captain? We just dropped something."_

Damn it.

…

* * *

…

**_Enterprise_, Gamma Hydra System, T Minus 40 Hours**

The Enterprise swooped down from the high heavens like an angel from on high, phase cannon banks blazing with scarlet energies that sent two of the fighters careening into the atmosphere to burn up on entry. Malcolm Reed allowed himself a small smirk of triumph. Two down, five to go.

"They're coming around for another attack run. They're arming their torpedo launchers."

Amazing, modern sensory technology. When his father served in the British navy during the tumultuous decades after WWIII and the whole First Contact thing, even the most advanced warship couldn't tell much more than something having _been_ launched, and what kind of missile was about to hit your ship. Identifying weaponry was done by visually confirming the weapons openly displayed on deck or extrapolating from known ships of the same types. Granted, in those days this was done by automated flying drones rather than binoculars, but the general principle was the same. Radar could be jammed. Laser imaging was useless in spray or smoke.

Malcolm glanced at his lidar screen, flickering and buzzing with distortion and static thanks to the electromagnetic jamming that made targeting such a bloody chore. Funny, for a moment he could almost see a bigger blip right by the moon, far enough away to be able to see without being seen. Unless one used upgraded sensors equal to the Vulcan ones.

_Thank you, minister T'Pau. You may not want to join us in the war effort, but you certainly gave us enough Christmas presents to let us not look too blasted stupid while _we_ go at it..._

"Sir, I'm reading some sort of anomaly just off the third moon...could be a ship."

"It is likely these fighters require a launch base of some sort. That could be it." T'Pol didn't even look up for that one. What was she so busy doing? Still trying to identify the pirates?

The captain didn't jump at the opportunity, though. "Or it might just be a sensor glitch due to the jamming. Keep an eye out for it again, Malcolm, but keep your eyes on the prize. There are still ten of those bastards left.

"Yes, sir." But his mind was already working. Small fighters, disruptors barely able to scratch the paint job on those freighters. Pocket-nuke missiles in their torpedo launchers, which wreak havoc with communications and sensors but do very little damage to ships able to weather traveling near stars...unless you get a perfect direct hit.

_A distraction?_

Now where on Earth did _that_ thought come from?

Captain Archer wasn't done, though. "Malcolm, have some of your armoury crew and some of the science crew set something up for me. They like jamming sensors, we'll see how they do when someone jams them right back..."

…

T'Pol stared through the scope, using the blinder to shut out all extraneous light. The algorithm was working slowly, methodically re-arranging pixels to something less blurry. It went through pattern recognition software originally built to identify faces in poor surveillance footage, cleaned out static and distortion, and finally left her with an oddly familiar yet unknown set of markings on the sides of the fighters.

Each small craft was a small delta-wing design, curved and sleek, pale green in color. Warning lights were bright green. The nose of each fighter was painted to resemble the head of a small raptor in mid-strike, mouth open in a silent shriek.

No...it couldn't be. _Logic_ suggested...

Logic suggested that anything confirmed to be real was in fact real. No matter how implausible.

At that moment, the silent shadow behind the third moon slowly glided into view on her active visual sensors, confirming her worst fears. She turned around, feeling the blood leave her face.

"Captain? It appears the fighters and their mothership are...Romulan."

Something struck the shields hard enough to cause a cascade failure in a breaker in the ceiling, and her secondary eyelids slid shut to protect her from the glare.

…

* * *

…

**TBC**


	7. As A Reman

**_Heronas_, Lost At Sea, T Minus 39 Hours**

"Try again now."

The grinding increased in volume until the entire engine sputtered to a stop. If they hadn't already been at impulse, well...the results would not have been pretty.

"Dammit."

Trip stared at the melted, burned mess of fuses and wiring that had been the result of the exactly wrong thing falling off in high warp. An external panel covering a whole mess of breakers and heat-bleed flanges and coolant piping, which were now venting precious coolant and plasma into space.

_Not any more it won't._

He hit the comms. "Jones! You got the coolant valves shut yet?"

"_In a moment...there."_

Trip checked the readouts...yeah, pressure building back to normal levels, they could reroute it safely now. "Okay, start rerouting it through the secondary and tertiary backups, let me know when you're done. I'll try to fix the wiring in helm control."

He stared at the mess again. Well, maybe it was a good thing to know exactly which wires to pull or disable to stop a starship from going to warp. _These_ sure did the trick. Maybe someday someone would _need_ to sabotage their own ship like this...

A presence at his shoulder made him turn and blink owlishly at Sergeant Fujisawa, the commanding officer for their small detachment of ten MACOs.

"Anything I can do for you, sergeant?"

"Actually, I was wondering if there's anything we can do. We're feeling a bit superfluous at the moment."

Her accent was mainland Japanese, but not heavy, and had a hint of Frisco to it. Likely an immigrant, then. "I dunno. Is there anything you _can_ do?"

"We're all rated for emergency hull and infrastructure repairs, and half of us have EVA-ratings. Murtaugh has worker bee clearance. Anything you can use there?"

"Actually, yeah. Get two of your men down to storage and bring out some duranium plating. Then take whoever you think necessary and get that hull plating fixed. We can't well repair this bucket if we're gonna have to stop for repairs in half a lightyear again."

"Will do."

_Yeah, I bet you will. Whoever got me a bunch of tech-savvy MACOs deserves a hug and kiss right about now..._

…

* * *

…

**Starfleet Command, San Francisco, Earth, T Minus 35 Hours**

The doors slid open, and Admiral Gardner marched in, slamming a padd on the desk hard. "What the hell is _this?_"

The proper word for his current mood would be 'livid'.

Admiral Black stared at his uninvited guest. "What is _what_, exactly?"

Gardner picked the padd back up. "This is _not_ the crew roster I approved for the _Heronas_. Wong was supposed to be second-in-command, Jacob Sawyer was meant to be chief engineer, and I sure as _hell_ didn't approve altering the transfer for the _Vulcan!_"

"Well...first of all, I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that tone with me, _admiral_. Second, last I checked _I_ was fleet admiral and could alter any orders given by my subordinates if no major objections could be raised. Third, the evaluations and alterations for the new crew roster were checked and double-checked by commodore Hernandez on my direct order. The current crew is what it is because these are the people available at the proper skill level required."

If Black was a less pleasant man, he'd be gloating about now. Fortunately, he had enough restraint to keep any such unsightly displays until later.

"...the MACOs, though. Why a _military_ detachment, the Buran-class are _couriers_ and we barely have enough troops-"

"Ten MACOs hardly make a dent in the military detachments, and you know it. Since we're at war, I have ordered that no ship, whether of the line or support, be without a minimum number of MACO trained in whatever field the ship is aimed. Even the planned science vessels will have a few SigInt MACO, just in case."

Unfortunately, none of this seemed to be calming Gardner down. The man was red in the face, irate, livid, all the usual phrases. He also appeared to be in some distress.

"...are you all right?"

Gardner blinked, breathing heavily. "No...no, I'm not. I..." He gripped his arm. "I think...I think I'm having a heart attack."

…

"Harris."

"_Is it done?"_

"Yes. He'll live, but he'll be out of commission for a few months. Then he'll probably retire as soon as the doctors clear him. They're talking about a replacement, already."

"_Good. Did you..."_

"Nothing that'll show on scans. And most of it was his own fault, anyway. I didn't make him over-salt his eggs each morning or get him extra helpings of French fries. He did that all on his own."

"_Good. Any word on the replacement candidates?"_

"Either Farragut or Grissom."

"_Farragut is a warmonger. Grissom is...a bit soft, but has the right ideas about the Coalition. Let's make sure Grissom gets the position."_

"You sure?"

"_Quite."_

…

* * *

…

**Enterprise, Gamma Hydra System, T Minus 34 Hours**

"They're coming about! Shields at fifty percent!"

"Aft torpedoes, full yield. T'Pol, is the flare ready yet?"

"Aye sir, full yield."

"Not yet, captain."

Jonathan Archer watched his tactical officer do the adjustments, after which two golden points of light detached and made their way towards the Romulan carrier...only to impact against shields at full strength. An all too familiar sight by now. The fighters flitted about doing no damage, but the carrier...oh, the carrier was a different beast. Huge, lumbering, heavily armed and armored.

"No real damage, sir."

"Evasive action!" Doing so meant less accuracy in firing back, but also less chance of getting hit. Always with the compromises. But all they needed were a few more minutes before the tables would be turned. Always keep a back-up plan, that's what Forrest taught him. At _least_ one.

_We're getting hammered._

"Their fighters are withdrawing."

_What?_

He realized his mistake mere moments later. "All hands, brace yourself!"

Because now the second part of the trap appeared. Coming out of the sun from the far side of the planet, three Romulan Warbirds, firing green death. The ship shook with each impact, panels sparking and inertial compensators straining...and those were just from the disruptor hits.

"T'Pol!"

"One minute!"

"We don't _have_ one minute!"

Her hands moved in a blur over the consoles, then she looked up at Reed. "Shut down all sensors and targeting systems on my mark. Mr Mayweather, you know what to do when it comes."

"Aye, commander."

_Closer...closer..._

"Mark!"

The sound of sensory systems being shut down was much like the sound of bells tolling at a funeral. The ship spun and twirled, a nauseating sensation in everyone's guts reminding them that without inertial dampers and compensators they'd be smears on the walls, floor and ceiling by the maneuvers the young lieutenant was performing.

"Weapon launched."

Always keep a back-up plan. The Romulans had played hide-and-go-seek with Starfleet for almost a year now. Time to see how they did that without eyes.

"Optimal range in twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Detonation."

The view screen flared white even though the hull cameras were down and Archer could see T'Pol blink, repeatedly. Most of the bridge crew had looked away entirely when the modified photon torpedo had gone up like a mini-nova. A flash-bang torpedo.

_If it's blinding like this to _us_, imagine how it was for the unaware Romulans..._

…

**Dagger of S'Lar**

"My _eyes!_" Centurion Thveihr shrieked in abject agony, throwing himself away from the sensor scope. Even Valdore had to blink stars out of his own eyes. The secondary eyelids had done _nothing_ to protect them against whatever that had been.

"Damage report!" The room was blurry, going from light to dark and back again. He found himself unable to focus, and the weakness irked him.

"All...all sensors are down, burned out. Whatever the Terrans fired on us, it was designed to blind us."

"The other battle groups?"

"Pinion reports all sensors down, though their fighters were unharmed, being in the hangar bays. Claw is also blinded. Engineering says it will take at least ten hours to repair the damage."

…

**Enterprise**

"Anything?"

"The Romulan vessels are for the most part dead in the water. But so are we. We have half impulse, shields have taken a beating, and the warp core is beyond repair."

"Keep it under containment. We might need to jettison the core as a last resort. For now, concentrate on getting impulse, weapons and shields back."

Archer leaned back into a chair that was as much a second home to him now as the cabin he shared with a small dog.

_Well, at least we have sensors... _

He frowned. "Could someone go check on Porthos?"

…

* * *

…

**Heronas, Dead In The Water, T Minus 35 Hours**

"Dammit, not again. Farrell, Wilkes, get in there and dig out the burnt out conduits."

"Sir, do we really have time for-"

"Is the warp core online? No? Then we got time. Now get in there." Trip looked around. "Where the hell is Jonsson?"

"Storage, sir, digging out the cooling flanges you ordered."

"Right." He rubbed his eyes. He hadn't gone this long without sleep since...the Expanse.

_Don't think about the Expanse._

"The hull repairs done yet?"

"Yessir. The MACOs are inbound."

"Yeah, let's just rotate into the regular hull crew. Give the MACOs a short rest, then have them do shift duty with the others. If Jonsson gets the flanges I want we're doing a quick jury-rig that'll come in handy when we arrive."

"...yessir."

_I hope to God we'll make it there in time._

…

* * *

…

**Enterprise, Gamma Hydra IV Orbit, T Minus 34 Hours**

T'Pol calmed herself for the fifth time since she began repairing the communications array. The exterior parts were done, but the interior was so much melted wiring and plastic, and the fumes assaulted her sensitive olfactory senses so intensely that they bypassed her nasal inhibitors quite without effort.

"Anything?"

She resisted the urge to tell the captain it would be done when it was done, and instead simply responded in as simple and straight-forward a manner as she could muster. "The exterior arrays and comms dishes have been replaced, but I'm afraid we'll have to replace an entire console. I'm having one brought up from ops."

"How long?"

"Unknown. Most of the engineering crew is busy with the engines and shields. They have prepared another of the flare torpedoes, should the opportunity arise."

"Somehow I doubt they'll fall for that one again. Still, it's good to have options."

…

**Dagger of S'Lar**

"Have the repairs been completed?"

"...only partly. The visual and most of the electromagnetic spectra are still beyond repair, the lenses burned out completely. We have lidar and gravitics, but they require a fair amount of close distance with our foe to be accurate enough for targeting. We still have sub-space jamming and communications working, though not at range. If they send a log buoy..."

Valdore reclined in his seat, thumb under his chin and index finger idly tapping his lips. "We need a diversion. The humans could be further along in their repairs than we are."

Sitting up, he began to make his plans. The humans had caught them unawares, turning the tables for the very first time in the war. Still, it was only one ship and a few freighters...

_Freighters..._

…

**ECAV Kobayashi Maru**

"God, I hate this crap. Starfleet gets a bright idea, now my viewscreen keeps showing big sunflowers no matter what."

"Looks more like coffee stains to me."

Kojiro Vance gave his first mate a sour glare. "That's not funny. Any luck with the engines?"

"None whatsoever. We have the plasma cannon on-line, though. And hull-plating."

"Great. We'll be the most heavily armed brick in the system. Not counting our friends out there..."

…

* * *

…

**Heronas, Still Stuck, T Minus 30 Hours**

"_Bridge to captain Tucker."_

Tucker sighed, let go of the piece of busted piping and stood up. Hitting the comms he leaned on the wall more out of necessity than habit. "Tucker here. What you got?"

"_Sir, we've received a message that I think you might want to hear. Actually, several."_

He took a deep breath. "I'll take it in my quarters. Thanks."

…

Ten minutes later he was feeling decidedly happier. Well, at least there was _some_ balance in the universe. He hit the comms again.

"Tucker to engineering."

"_Engineering, Sawyer here. The chief is working on the warp coils."_

"Warp coils? That means most of the engine is fixed. More good news."

"_Yessir."_

He checked in with each department in turn, and each had a positive response. The EVA job was done, the jury-rig complete and solid as it could get...they'd be underway in an hour. He took a deep sigh, rubbed his eyes, then gently tapped his forehead with a knuckle.

_Knock on wood._

…

Wong had gone off shift by now, and helm was taken by Gordon, a cheerful young brunette who seemed altogether far too chipper for her job.

"_Tucker to bridge."_

"This is the bridge, what can I do you for, captain?"

There was a brief pause, then the captain again, this time sounding vaguely amused. _"Uh, I take it Wong is off his shift...anyone from the regular crew up there?"_

"Only lieutenant Nessler, sir, he's got the con. Want to talk to him?"

"_Uh...no, no need. I'm taking the opportunity for five hours sleep. Wake me if anything happens, and prepare to get underway the moment engineering clears you. Maximum warp."_

"Will do, captain."

Nessler looked at the pilot's seat for a long time, then shook his head.

_Mein Gott, I have to face another three hours of this?_

…

* * *

…

_The bar is lit by pale green glowbulbs in the ceiling. It's crowded, in the upper double digits. Three men in silver and black uniforms sit by the bar, sipping blue thunder in tall glasses. As he walks up to it the bartender smiles at him, half his ridged, alien face and skull burnt away by a stray disruptor blast and motions for him to take his seat. _

"_Friend! Always welcome here you are. Please, what will it be?"_

_Trip looks around. He recognizes the bartender, as well as the three men on barstools next to him. One has the tell-tale signs of having been garroted by a thin mono-filament wire, another lacks an eye where the long, slim dirk whose hilt still protrudes from the socket struck him and the third has most of his chest gone. They look over and nod._

"_Got any bourbon?"_

"_But of course! Always the best for you, friend."_

_A glass is poured, and he takes it down in one swallow, but there is no burn, no taste, no spike in his gut from the alcohol. He frowns. Nothing._

_The bartender looks concerned. "Is something the matter, friend?"_

_Trip hesitates, wonders if he should tell him. Decides not to. Instead he asks, "So where have we met before?"_

_Now the bartender looks a little hurt. "Friend, how can you ask me such a thing? We are all here because of you. Each and every one of us. Do you not recognize us?"_

_Trip stares at the man. Familiar... He looks at the men in the barstools. Familiar. He turns around and looks at the people seated by tables, the people standing in corners. Men, women, some Vulcan, some Romulan, a couple of Klingons, a Nausicaan, several Orion males and females...he blinks._

"_You're dead."_

_The bartender grins at him. "Of course we are! We are _all_ dead here. And so are you."_

_Trip frowns, then looks down where the bartender is pointing and there is the great big hole where the disruptor blast hit it wasn't a transponder dart it was an actual disruptor and he's screaming and-_

…

He sat up, panting, sweating, choking down a startled shout. The sheets were bundled up in damp knots, the room was stuffy and warm (still no working environmental controls, then), and the stars outside...

...the stars outside were streaks of light zipping by.

"Tucker to bridge."

"_Bridge here." _That was Sawyer, back in the tactical seat.

"I take it we got the warp core online again?"

"_Yessir. Purrs like a kitten. I think she's actually working better than-"_

"What speed we at?" _No time for chit-chat._

"_Warp six point five and holding steady."_

Trip smiled in spite of himself. Glancing at the clock told him that it was exactly seven hours after he turned in. "What happened to my wake-up call?"

"_We decided you needed the sleep. Half the shifts are taking their beauty sleep as well."_

He nodded, knowing they couldn't see him. Good idea. No use having everyone passing out from fatigue when they arrived.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Tell Jonsson to take a couple of crewmen not too otherwise occupied and fix the damn environmentals."

_"Yessir."_

He stared out the window. Then he picked up the padd he'd been reading, his frown deepening.

_Starfleet regulation revisions, September 18th 2155: Codes of conduct._

…

**TBC**


	8. Overture

**Q&A:** Okay, in no particular order some answers to questions asked; First off, I agree that the "Previously on" deserves its own story. I fully intend to write it some day, but this one keeps digging at my brain more. Second, Heronas _is_ in fact one of the Latinate forms of Heron of Alexandrias' name, and helps make certain people don't think the ship is named for a wading bird. **:-)** Third, chief engineer of the Heronas is Armando Gutierrez, his 2IC is Philip Sawyer.

Edwina Sawyer is the female tactical officer (no relation).

It helps to have read Red & Green & Starfleet Blues, in which his command crew is mentioned for the first time (plug, plug). I can add a full crew roster to the Author's notes for next chapter if you guys want, though.

Bridge crew, though, I can give you here; helm is David Wong, comms is Horst Nessler, tactical is Edwina "Eddie" Sawyer, XO and science officer is...well, you'll see (if you haven't already figured it out). Second shift is Susan Gordon (in Trip's head "the cheerful chipmunk") at the helm, Kim Dae Song on comms and Terence Carter at tactical, with variations on actual crew present depending on their presence being needed elsewhere during repairs or the likes (thus Horst being still on the bridge during second shift).

Trip hasn't talked to T'Pol because the Enterprise is currently unreachable (Romulan jamming buoys in the GH system as well as communications getting knocked out while short-cutting through the Charybdis Reef). Oh, and "...As A Reman" was a pun on the "blind as a bat" saying. Blinded Romulans? Bat-like Remans? Anyone? Anyone? ...I'll get me coat.

…

* * *

…

**Dagger of S'Lar, Gamma Hydra System, T Minus 22 Hours**

Commodore Valdore stared at the readouts. His eyes were still itching and flaring every now and then.

"Report."

Centurion C'vith swallowed, a nervous expression marring her pretty features. "Centurion Thveihr is blinded and will no longer be able to serve the Empire until a proper medical diagnosis can be made-"

Valdore held out one hand, silencing her in mid-sentence. "His fate does not concern me. The ships. Tell me about the ships."

"...yes. Sensors are still inoperable, though we have close-range proximity detectors and lidar at thirty percent. Optics are beyond repair, as are most other visual and electromagnetic spectra. Targeting will have to be manual, and long-range sensors are entirely out."

He nodded, leaning back. "Good. What of the Terrans and the Tellarites?"

"Scans show the Terran warship managed to get impulse back an hour or so ago, and they have since moved out of immediate sensor range. No warp signatures, and our jamming buoys are still operating at peak capacity."

"In other words, they have gone to ground to repair, and we still have the advantage."

"Yes, sir." She swallowed again. "The Tellarites are for the most part destroyed, and the Terran freighters are immobilized in orbit around the planet."

He smiled. "Excellent. It is time we gave them incentive to fight."

…

**ECAV Serenity Valley**

The _Serenity Valley_, named after her home base on Earth's moon, had served as a cargo vessel for twenty-four years. A family ship, she was inherited by William Bell two years earlier, and he and his newly found wife and business partner had already begun plans to expand with a second vessel.

Unfortunately all their hopes and dreams, along with those of the other six crew members, were forever lost as twin disruptor blasts tore into her already damaged warp core. The ship was vaporized with all hands.

…

**Enterprise**

"Captain. The Romulans have opened fire." Malcolm Reed leaned back from his screens, mouth twisted in distaste.

Archer frowned. "On who?"

"...one of the freighters. The _Serenity Valley._"

He closed his eyes. They were _goading_ them. Murdering innocent civilians just to let them know they still had the upper hand. Well...not for long. "Travis, how far can the autopilot on a shuttlepod be programmed?"

The young pilot pondered this. "...well, in theory it can be set to take off, do a full orbit and land all by itself, it's just never been needed before..."

"Just what we need. Here's what I want you to do..."

…

* * *

…

**Heronas, In Transit, T Minus 20 Hours**

"...you're walking down the stairs when all of a sudden the oak doors behind you smash open and three orcs run out, armed with swords and spears. Roll initiative."

There were four of them in the small mess hall, the only crewmen having an actual break. Dullis was a MACO, Texas born and raised, his black hair and slight olive skin showing something of a mutt heritage. As it turned out he had game-mastered back in boot camp and so found himself dragged into it here as well, and since Farrell and Pauling were in Maintenance they had provided the multi-sided dice (spare hunks of scrap metal shaped in the metal-shop) and a pair of simple plastic document folders taped together for a GM screen. He'd made do with a thermal blanket and some scraps of paper with random numbers on them once, so this was actually quite luxurious.

Jonsson was peering at his character sheet after rolling. "Well, no surprise attack for this rogue. 12, plus my AC, that's..."

The comms bleeped and Dullis shook his head in disgust as Farrell got up and walked over to it to reply. "Aw, great, _just_ when we finally got going..."

"Mess hall, Farrell here."

"_Bridge here. Is Dullis around?" _That was Nessler, the laconic German. Few had actually spoken with him, and when they did he hadn't exactly been forthcoming.

"Yeah. Hold on."

Dullis got up, making sure to fold the GM screen down over his notes. The game had started up while they were still in space dock, and every now and then when they had a few hours of non-sleep free time they gathered together to kick in doors and loot dungeons. Replacing Farrell by the comms he glanced over at Jonsson to make sure the guy wasn't sneaking peeks on the notes. The man was a notorious cheat.

_Maybe that's why he's always playing rogue-type characters..._

"Dullis here."

"_Yeah, the captain is preparing a few toys for use when we arrive and is looking for anyone on the ship with any kind of-"_

"This is over that particle physics paper I wrote, isn't it?"

Nessler actually sounded a bit apologetic. _"Yeah...so anyway, report to Ops. Right away."_

"Will do."

…

"You want me to _what?_"

"Make me a laser."

"A laser."

"Yup."

"...sir, you _do_ realize lasers do diddly squat to most shields? Especially Romulan ones."

"Oh, the laser's just the entrée."

"...okay, you lost me."

Captain Tucker grinned at him. "You'll see. Here's what I want..."

…

**T Minus 19 Hours**

Three. Two. One. Trip stared at the screen. Not yet. _Hell, I _have_ to get this working..._

"Adjust the harmonics...point zero zero two."

"Adjusting harmonics."

Three. Two. One. Still nothing. _God, I wish T'Pol was here. She'd have this done in no time._ "Dammit. Okay, another two points."

"Adjusting."

Three. Two. One. "Yes! Right, make a note there, then adjust another two and try again..."

…

**T Minus 18 Hours**

"Try it again."

Wong muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?"

The helmsman probably realized denying it would be foolish, since instead he raised his voice slightly. "I said I've tried six times and it did nothing. No matter what I do the warp factor won't go any higher. We're stuck at six point five, captain."

Tucker got out of his seat, walked the six steps up to the helm and leaned down right next to Wong. "Lemme see that."

Hands scarred with old plasma burns, little white spots where sparks had hit and...some weird calluses on his wrists, worked quickly over the controls. "I shouldn't have to do this, Wong. You should be able to yourself."

The young lieutenant commander's face started reddening. "...yessir."

"Now try it again." Trip made his way back and got seated. Yeah, the bridge was more a tunnel than a proper command center. The haste of the design showed. While he heard the warp engine change her pitch ever so slightly he smiled and picked up the padd he'd been toying with. Okay, so a _dome_...it would break up the paper picnic-plate profile and allow for a bigger bridge. You could also house a bigger, better ops and science department, and the extra space would allow him to lay out a better...no, flanges _there_, that way...right. Enhance hull plating in those areas, and a few bigger shield emitters...

"Six point six and holding, sir."

"Steady as she goes, Wong. Steady as she goes."

"...aye, sir, steady as she goes." If there was a hint of resentment in the voice then fine. He had a plan for Wong. _Can't make an omelet without breaking some egos..._

…

* * *

…

**Gamma Hydra System, ECV Kobayashi Maru, T Minus 17 Hours**

"_Please_ tell me we have warp drive." Kojiro Vance rubbed weary eyes with a smudged, soot-flecked hand, trying not to notice the aches everywhere else.

"Nope. But we have impulse."

He let out a sigh of relief. "Oh thank God. Now all we need is a distraction while we sneak away. How about Serenity Valley?"

There was no response.

"Murphy?"

"I...I thought you knew."

"Knew _what?_" He couldn't help the irritation creeping into his voice.

"They, ah, they blew it up. About three hours ago."

Vance sat down in the pilot's seat, hard. Willie Bell had been a good friend. Hells, he'd been to the man's wedding not three weeks ago. "Jesus. Why?"

Murphy shrugged. He looked..._angry_. Murphy, the sweetest, most harmless and laid back engineer-slash-co-pilot to ever walk the space lanes, was angry. "I don't know. Just because, I think."

"Jesus. Okay, stand by to go to full impulse at a moment's notice. Warm up the engine, only...try to keep it on the down low."

"...how do I do that?"

"..._I_ dunno. Tinker casual-like."

…

**Enterprise**

"Do we have full impulse yet?" Anna Hess wiped the coolant off her face before she'd get it in her eyes (you only made _that_ mistake _once_) and glanced at Torino, his face darkened with soot from the small plastic fire they'd had half an hour ago.

"Not yet, ma'am. Ten minutes. Tops."

"Good. We have some shields back, and comms are up. Not that we can call _anyone_ with those damn stealthed up jammers they drop in-system whenever they pick a fight..."

He nodded, handing her a twelve-inch half-spanner. She set to work again. "Get going, Torino. Oh, and wipe your face. You look like Al Jolson."

She felt more than saw the big grin on his face. He only ever smiled when you looked away. "Yes, ma'am."

…

"_Engineering to bridge."_

Captain Archer worked the cricks out of his neck and wished, not for the last time, that the captain's seat could recline. He should have asked for that years ago. Get a cat nap during long waits. He chuckled at the absurdity of the thought, then realized he must be getting punchier than he'd thought. How long had he been awake now? _Too long._ "Bridge here."

"_Yeah, we have full impulse in twenty minutes. Shields are back, and if you look out on your port view you may find that there is no longer a plasma fire above the mess hall. Let chef know he can come out of hiding now."_

Archer let out a breath of relief. "Comms?"

"_Yep. But the Rommies are jamming everything like there's no tomorrow, so we're stuck with cans and a string."_

"Right. Bridge out."

He leaned back. "Well, _I_ feel like celebrating, how about you guys? Malcolm, fire up tactical. T'Pol, see what you can do with our little present." He paused. _Cans on a string..?_ "Hoshi, why don't you see what you can do with the ship's lanterns?"

Lieutenant Sato stared at him like he'd grown an extra head. "Sir?"

"Humor me. And dig out your old standard issue code books. World War Two."

…

**ECV Devlin MacGregor**

"Cap...?"

Felipe Cordoba looked over at his helmsman. "Hmm?"

"I'm getting something funny here on visual...I see the Enterprise, she's back, in the moon's shadow...and she's _blinking_ at us."

_"What?_" Cordoba stood up to see what the hell Henderson was prattling about. "Blinking?

Sure enough, the faintest blinking could be seen, blink blink blink, blink, blink, blink blink, blink... "Sir? I think it's Morse code..."

…

**Dagger of S'Lar**

"Anything?"

"No, commodore. Nothing. Either they have escaped, or they are outside sensor range."

C'vith didn't mention that the latter was the most likely because they _still_ couldn't get the sensors back and operating.

"They haven't left. Not while we have our blades at the throat of their freighters. Target the second ship, but wait for my signal. If their sensors are functioning, they'll have to take action..."

…

**Enterprise**

"Sir, they're targeting the _Devlin MacGregor._" Malcolm sounded hoarse, but it wasn't from fatigue. Some of the fumes down in the Armoury had disagreed with him, and it had taken Phlox's gentle cures (and some kind of squid-like creature) to get him the semblance of vocal chords back.

"Well, well, well...give them a little long-distance kiss."

"Aye, sir. Firing torpedo."

A single photonic torpedo shot out, aimed straight for the largest of the Romulan warships, the carrier.

"Full speed ahead. I want us to come up directly beneath them. Let them think we're more desperate than we are..."

…

**Dagger of S'Lar**

"Sir, the Sheltering Wing is under attack, impact on the stern! Shields at ninety-six percent, but holding."

Valdore snarled. "I thought our shields were supposed to be impervious to their photonics!"

"They _should_ be! I don't know what...maybe they've managed to enhance the yield or something."

"_Or something_. Never underestimate the Terrans. They're clever little beasts, the moment you have them under your thumb they figure out a way to bite it." He glared at the lack-luster displays, where he could only make out the general shape and distance to the other ships, and nowhere the Enterprise showed. "Open fire on the-"

The entire ship lurched as something struck the hull hard enough to send breaker explosions across the bridge. Green emergency lights flickered on, and he felt the compensators struggle to keep up.

"Sir! They've fired on us, multiple torpedoes, shields at seventy percent but holding. I can't even _see_ them, it's-"

"It's as if they're not there. _Clever_, Archer. _Very_ clever. He's firing from a distance, knowing we can't detect the torpedoes until they hit. Did you get the freighter?"

"No, sir, the moment the photonics struck they started moving away. They're still in orbit, just out of firing range."

He froze. Could they have gotten communications back up? _Impossible_. The jamming buoys were strong enough to ruin _any_ signal strong enough to enter sub-space, and radio was out of the question. _How_, then... His eyes narrowed. "They must be using some kind of visual communication. Do _we_ have visual, yet?"

"No, sir. The replacement lenses need to be installed at a space-dock, if we try it out here they'll be out of align-"

"Do I hear _excuses_, centurion?"

"...no, sir. I will...I will oversee the repairs myself."

…

**ECV Kobayashi Maru**

"Hell, I never thought I'd get _any_ use from our old history files. Who knew?"

Murphy grinned at him. "Okay, let's switch to Comanche for the next round, just in case. Then Navajo the one after that."

Kojiro Vance laughed.

…

* * *

…

**Imperial Warship Verkaza'an, Andoria Orbit, T Minus 15 Hours**

"Another message from the pinkskin Tucker, captain."

Shran glared at his lieutenant. "That's _captain_ Tucker to _you_. I'm his friend, I'm _allowed_ to call him that. You haven't earned the _honor_." Still, he looked over the message, and started to smile. A somewhat disturbing smile, for those who knew him. He only ever got that smile in two situations. Whenever an outsider badmouthed his mate, or when he was about to kill a beaten foe. Usually they were the same incident. "Well it's about _time_. Lieutenant! Tell engineering to squeeze out every last drop of power. We can't let the pinkskins beat us in the speed department."

The young lieutenant's antennae flattened against his skull in either withheld anger or eagerness to fight, but he complied. _He damn well better._ It had taken Shran the better part of a year to get a new captaincy after the loss of his second ship, and it would probably take him _half_ that to break in his crew of young and eager officers right out of the Imperial Academy, but he was used to it. The smile broadened, slowly. He _liked_ Tucker. The man had a talent for finding fights...

…

* * *

…

**Starfleet Battle Group Epsilon, NX-06 Constellation Commanding**

"Estimated time of arrival?" Captain Donaldson leaned back in the not entirely comfortable chair and idly wondered if there was anything that could be done to change it. Not important.

"Roughly twelve hours, sir. I have to say, these routes...where did you get them from?"

Donaldson shrugged. "From Tucker. And no, he didn't say where _he_ got them from. He told me not to ask, in fact."

Ensign Curtis, currently at the helm, shrugged. "Well, wherever he got them he's shortened travel times through these sectors by _days_..."

…

* * *

…

**Vulcan Flagship Surak, In Transit, T Minus 14 Hours**

"Captain, we have cleared the wormhole and are en route to Gamma Hydra. The star charts provided were remarkably accurate and helpful."

Captain Dovek raised an eyebrow. "I expect no less from Captain Tucker. He is a most resourceful human."

Sub-commander Skohn raised his own brow in return. "Did he mention how he obtained them?"

"He told me not to inquire further. I doubt we would find his answers satisfactory." Dovek stood ram-rod straight by the command console, watching the blinking lights and reports with as much detachment as he could afford while holding a conversation with his second-in-command. "But so far they have been quite accurate. Even this small wormhole that shortened our journey by weeks. A stable anomaly this close to Vulcan...I find it somewhat odd that the old High Command did not know of it."

"Perhaps they did, and chose not to share the information with the fleet."

Dovek raised _both_ eyebrows now. _That_...was a most disconcerting thought. He irrationally wished that his younger brother Kov was there with them. Father had always relied on Dovek, but it was Kov who had found the emotional equilibrium so many of their people sought. Joining the Syrranites had proven to be more fortuitous for their house than they had thought when he informed them of his decision two years ago, and the whole idea had been brought on by human interference. The very same human he was now pushing the limits of the flagship of all Vulcan to aid. Yes, Kov would handle..._nervousness_...better. _Much_ better.

The idea that he might be simply _missing_ his little brother would probably have only caused the young captain to be even more confused.

"Perhaps. Perhaps we shall send the information to the High Council."

Sub-commander Skohn nodded. "That would be appropriate."

…

* * *

…

**Tellarite War Administraion Vessel Kluthvuk, In Transit, T Minus 14 Hours**

"These charts...they remind me of something."

"I doubt it. Your memory is as faulty as a broken sieve, and that's on a good day."

Captain Rill glared at his second-in-command. "It's a shame your skills as a helmsman aren't as sharp as your mouth, Gund. We might actually be making headway if they were."

Gund smirked insolently. "Well, you get what you pay for, you cheap old drunk."

"What's our estimated time of arrival? Or is calculating such a simple thing too complicated for your feeble little mind?"

"Unless you decide to try using the warp core to heat your mud bath again, less than ten hours. Possibly more if we have to stop to let you find your genitals with a magnifying glass and a map."

Rill barked a laugh and swatted his helmsman affectionately on the head. "Good! Good. Wake me if you break the ship, would you?" Without waiting for an answer he left the bridge, humming a little song to himself. Yes, they'd beat those arrogant Andorians to the rendezvous point. And if they _didn't_, Gund would find out what fun it was to clean out the latrines again...

…

* * *

…

**Earth, Starfleet Intelligence Supply & Inventory (Section 31), T Minus 13 Hours**

Harris stood up straight, both fists on his desk, his face beet red. "He did _what?"_

Agent Carmine swallowed nervously. "He gave them the Magellan files."

The chief of Section 31 rarely lost his cool. Few agents had ever seen him more than mildly upset (such as after the Klingon fiasco) or peeved (such as when he found out the Terra Prime movement had gotten one over on his organization), and none had ever seen him really angry.

He was _definitely_ angry now.

"...you're telling me that the smuggler's routes we obtained from various underhanded sources during a full _year_ of highly sensitive infiltration have been handed over to Starfleet _command crews?_ Without _clearance?"_

"No, sir."

Harris glared at him. "_What_ then?"

"I'm saying he handed them to the Vulcans, Tellarites and Andorians as well. He left a message stating that since he helped obtain them, they were his as well as ours to do with as he wished."

Harris stared at him, eyes wide open in shock, his face slowly darkening even further.

The next few hours were even less pleasant.

…

* * *

…

**TBC**


	9. Allegro

**Author's Note:** Yes, Trip is in fact using the warp core equivalent of re-heat to boost a few systems. It's something I personally believe is a standard feature on later starships, and explains how the shields always seem to have to go down before the engines can get seriously busted up in both movies and TV-series. By the way, how many noticed the classic Trek easter eggs I put in chapter 6? A couple of names, to be precise...

Oh, and the little occasional interludes with things to come and easter eggs will continue.

Short chapter, this one, but hopefully the next will be both longer and more satisfying. Some of you might find the name mentioned in this chapter very familiar. Yes. It's him. Just using a spelling that (in my ear) fits the pronunciation, is all.

…

* * *

…

**Earth, Starfleet Intelligence Supply & Inventory (Section 31), T Minus 11 Hours**

Section chief Harris read through the reports one by one, but he wasn't really registering the information. When agent Carmine entered with another report, he waved it off to a corner of the desk, staring instead at nothing.

"...you seem pensive, sir."

Harris glanced at the young agent. He'd picked up Carmine from Starfleet Intelligence a few years ago, and it had been quite the bargain. They had put the poor man to spy on the Vulcan embassy, a task as futile and dull as rolling marbles up stairs. Now he was Harris' own personal secretary, separating the wheat from the chaff.

"I suppose I have good reason to be."

Carmine hesitated. "Have you decided what to do with the Tucker situation?"

Harris didn't reply at first. Then he picked up the padd with Tucker's personal information, including his brief time under Section 31. "Yes, I have." He put the padd down. "We're writing him off as an asset. No sanction."

"But sir, he exposed classified information-"

"-that I was going to give to the admiralty at about this time anyway, and which might save Starfleet from a potential disaster. No, I was mainly angry because he didn't clear it with me first. Well, that and..."

"...because you didn't expect him to be clever enough to be able to steal your files, sir?"

Harris glared at his secretary, but finally nodded, once. "I suppose I should have listened to my own advice."

"Sir?"

He picked up the padd and read out loud. "Let's see...ah, here it is. _'Tucker is highly intelligent and resourceful, something many fail to realize due to being lured in by his laid back, humble mannerisms and rural accent. This makes him near perfect for covert assignments'_...I wrote that before we recruited him."

Carmine gave a half-smile, the most of one Harris had ever seen. "Irony can be pretty ironic sometimes, sir."

"...what?"

His secretary just kept the mysterious little half of a smile as he left the room.

…

* * *

…

**Rendezvous Point Alpha, 2 Light Years Off Gamma Hydra, T Minus 9 Hours**

By the time the last ships arrived (Battle Group Epsilon, ironically), the Heronas had been on site for forty-five minutes and counting. Captain Donaldson of the NX-06 Constellation barely held back rolling his eyes in weary amusement as the familiar Southern drawl of the scourge of engineering decks hailed them.

"_Nice of you guys to join us, I was about to send out a search party. Thought you might have gotten lost or something."_

Donaldson returned a tight smile to the teasing young captain. "No such luck, captain. You'll be stuck with me in command, I'm afraid. Though I'll gladly take whatever edge you might hold on the Romulans, they've been beating us black and blue all over the outer systems."

Tucker just grinned in return. _"Oh, I have a few new toys for you to play with, sir. Well, old toys, really, with some modifications to make'em work in this here situation. I'm sending over the specs now, it'll take less than an hour to make the adjustments so your crew better get cracking."_

"Not every crew works as quickly as yours, captain. But we'll try. Status?"

"_Well, from the garbled transmissions we've been able to pick up and decipher and the long-range sensor sweeps, it seems the Rommies hit'em hard and fast, but T...Archer had a little surprise for'em. Some kind of modified torpedo, worked like a damn flash-bang. Everything after that is loud static, but you can bet they've gotten to ground."_

"How can you be so sure they're still there? The Enterprise could have been destroyed already."

Tucker looked pensive. _"I...got my reasons. Also, all comms in and out of the system are still being jammed, and that's a sure sign the Rommies don't want anyone to know they're taking a beating instead of being victorious."_

"True. Still, with those cloaked jamming buoys of theirs we're going to have a hard time maintaining formations."

The big grin widened. _"That's one of the toys I got for you. Something we used on the Suliban a few years ago, I think I've been able to modify it to work with what we know of Romulan cloaking devices..."_

…

**Battlecruiser Verkaza'an**

"Is he _mad?_"

Shran displayed a feral grin. "That's half the _fun_. Do it. I look forward to testing this in battle..."

The young lieutenant shook his head in disbelief as the schematics rolled across his screen. "This...it's _archaic!_"

"So is a harpoon, but we still use those to protect our cities from snow-maws. Do it. Before I lose my good mood."

…

**USS Heronas**

Trip stared at the displays. Everything was in readiness on his side, and the experience had given him a chance to look over the process enough to shorten the assembly time for the other ships. Still, too damn slow for his taste.

"Eddie, we got the power-feeds working on the Taser?"

"Yes, sir. Wish you wouldn't call it that, though." He could hear the disapproving in her voice, and grinned at the thought of his trigger-happy tactical officer having to wield such a 'nice' weapon in battle. It was sort of difficult to reconcile the joking, grinning Sawyer with the Sawyer who gained a feral grin during simulations. Though he had to admit she was almost as good a shot with the phase cannon as Malcolm. But only almost.

"Fifth rule of an engineer, you use whatever works, even if it seems silly. Nessler, any luck on the comms?"

"None, sir. The sensors still register only white noise and static. Half from that thing Archer set off, the rest from the Romulans. I wish I could have seen their faces when it went off."

"If I can get the blueprints on that one, you might get a chance soon enough. I like the idea of blinding the bastards. We might want some kind of swift sensor shutdown protocol, though, to keep from blinding ourselves..." He made a note of it. They only had a single tube, unlike the NX-class, but what they had he intended to make the most of. The Buran-class was not much in battle, at least on paper, and some of the design choices he sure as hell wouldn't have approved of if he'd had a direct hand in the process, but you took what you were given.

That was rule number four, by the way.

…

* * *

…

**Dagger of S'Lar, Gamma Hydra System, T Minus 7 Hours**

Centurion C'vith hesitated before standing straight in front of her commanding officer to deliver what might be her last report. She still did it, though. "Captain. We have regained most of our shields, weapons are operational again, and our proximity sensors are back up." She closed her eyes briefly, then continued. "The Tellarite ships have escaped down to the planet's surface, and the Terran freighters are just outside our weapons range. Engines are still...engines can only provide a third impulse."

Commodore Valdore regarded her impassively, then smiled briefly. "And what of Claw and Pinion?"

"The...Sheltering Wing reports weapons beyond repair, and half impulse at best. Their fighters are being re-armed with disruptors, but the process is slow, especially with the cowardly hit and run tactics of the humans. Chulak's Blade is having trouble putting out plasma fires, and Glory of G'thanhvui reports full readiness. Pinion is...still blinded. Most of their able crew were unprepared when the flare torpedo detonated, and even their captain is infirm with blindness."

He appeared to be pondering this, sprawled on the seat of command as if it was the throne of some barbarian alien. "Focus their repairs on weapons and engines, send replacement crew from the Sheltering Wing to the Pinion ships. What about visual sensors on my ship?"

"We - we have managed to install the replacement lenses. Visuals will be blurry until we can get them properly aligned, but they will suffice. We have ascertained that the Terrans are indeed using some kind of optic code to communicate, but it appears to be too alien for our code filters and language files to cope. We know they are speaking to each other, but we cannot understand them."

"I see." The commodore thoughtfully tapped his lips with a finger, then nodded, sharply. "Time to stop playing, then. The moment we have decent maneuverability I want all ships to seek out and concentrate fire on the Enterprise."

"Yes, captain."

"_Commodore_. And don't forget it, _centurion_."

…

**Enterprise**

T'Pol stared at the readouts, not really reading them. She was at least fifteen hours past her personal limit of fatigue endurance, and none of the teas she had ingested within the last hour were working other than making her feel a mild urge to visit the restrooms soon.

What was really frustrating her at the moment was the fact that while her emotional control was in excellent working condition, her task was becoming increasingly difficult. Hess was an excellent engineer, and kept the ship running nearly as well as Trip had, but she was only one woman and as usy as she was she couldn't assign anyone to help T'Pol with this particular issue.

She found herself wishing Trip was there.

_They had been attempting to modify their sensors to detect a Suliban warp trail for over an hour at this point, and she had just patiently explained to commander Tucker just exactly why the alterations she had intended would not work on the clumsy sensors of the human-made NX craft. But instead of acquiescing to her logic, he grinned at her in that mildly aggravating fashion he always used when he knew something you didn't, popped open a panel nearby and pulled out a simple tubular device from his back pocket._

"_You're over-thinking it. See, all you gotta do is disconnect the limiter relays here, here and here, and you get a lot more sensitivity. We're gonna have to replace them right after, and it won't last long, but it'll work for what you had in mind. See?"_

_She leaned forward, accidentally brushing against his sleeve with one hand. She didn't flinch until she realized she hadn't flinched._

"_Yes. I see."_

She leaned against the console, inadvertently reaching up with one hand to cover her yawn.

Coffee. She _loathed_ the drink, but Trip always used it when he needed to stay awake. Yes. Coffee. She would have to take a steam bath after to sweat out the various harmful elements and the stink of the acids in the beverage when this was all done.

She stepped away from the console and headed for the mess.

…

The mess was mostly empty, apart from lieutenant Sato, lieutenant commander Reed and captain Archer, seated at a table engaged in quiet conversation. She pondered seating herself apart, but realized this would only make them approach her. She stared at the drinks dispenser for a while, then set it for a caffeinated drink that wouldn't be too offensive in taste.

She studiously avoided checking if the desserts display had any pie. Pecan or otherwise.

Seating herself, she remained quiet while listening to her fellow crew-members discuss the situation, though much of the conversation was actually aimed elsewhere.

"Well, I think if Starfleet knew we were here or what was going on they would have sent someone by now. We're not _that_ far out from Earth. Not like Vulcan, or, or Andoria." Hoshi frowned, glancing over at T'Pol. "...what are you _drinking?"_

T'Pol froze. Then relaxed as she realized she hadn't made a social faux pas. "I believe the term for it is 'espresso with a hint of chocolate'. I find the taste of strong coffee much too bitter to palate on its own."

Hoshi nodded, sympathetic. "Trying to stay awake, huh? I've caught myself having little micro-naps, nodding off for a second or two at a time, so I put Harding to watch the comms for me. Had three hours of glorious uninterrupted sleep. But I guess you can't afford the luxury."

T'Pol resisted the urge to frown. "What do you mean?"

Lt commander Reed shrugged. "I think she means you're the only one who can understand what you're doing with the sensor array. Irreplaceable, as the word goes."

Captain Archer made that mild grimace he always made when disagreeing with someone. "I don't know, I seem to recall there being a few people we've met at her level. She's one of a kind, but we might be able to get a few assistants for her when this is all over."

Hoshi smirked. "He means no-one on this ship. Not like we have any spare Cochranes or Erickson's hidden in cargo bay 2."

"Exactly." The two exchanged a glance.

They'd been doing a lot of that lately. T'Pol suspected their working relationship wasn't entirely professional or allowed by the codes of conduct, but then, she hadn't exactly cared about that when she seduced Trip while in the Expanse. It wasn't really her place to judge. Besides, they seemed content.

Archer actually grinned, but you could see the weariness plainly on his face. Humans required more sleep than Vulcans, and he was most certainly running on far too little of it.

_Just like me._

She sipped the drink and couldn't help wrinkling her nose. Still too bitter. Perhaps she should add a hint of cinnamon next time.

_...next time?_

…

* * *

…

**Heronas, T Minus 4 Hours**

There was a flaw in the intake manifolds that caused a vent to overheat and fuse, which in turn caused...Trip sighed, and set to work. First, you removed the covering and checked for flaws in the alloy. Slightest deviation in the duranium to steel to titanium ratio could be the culprit. Then, you checked the coolant ducts beneath. If one was out of alignment or clogged, once again, bad juju. Third, you...ah. _There_. Someone had left a hydrospanner touching both outer and inner wall, causing it to conduct heat, causing...

"Remind me to slap the dock chief upside the head next time we're back home."

Crewman Jonsson, who was really supposed to be watching the lone shuttlepod in case it decided to wander off on its own (honestly, some of the tasks handed out to the crew only made sense on bigger ship classes), chuckled. "Yessir. Found the problem?"

"Yep. On the up side, we can add another spare tool to the quartermaster. On the downside, you're gonna help me replace all the stuff I pulled out to get to it. And by 'help' I really mean _you_ get to work, I'm going back up to command where I belong. Take your time, though, no use seeing all this break up again because you had to rush."

"Yessir. Getting out the welding torch."

Instead of replying, Trip kicked off from the interior wall and glided softly across to the maintenance hatch. The nacelles and the struts were the only places on board without artificial gravity, and for that he was briefly grateful. At least until he stepped out of the Jeffries tube and felt his stomach turn as one gee did the mambo with his inner ear. He paused, letting his balance get back the equilibrium, staring at a single point on the wall until the nausea passed, then continued.

…

"Found the problem, sir?"

Trip glanced at Wong. The man had softened a bit in the past ten hours. Could be simply lack of sleep, though. "Yeah. Some of the construction crew forgot a little souvenir for us. If we'd warped in-system with that, we'd have lost the nacelle before the Rommies even noticed us. Status."

Wong checked a list on his side screen. "Almost all repairs are done, shields are operating at maximum, the new additions are working and have been aligned, and the Tellarites report to having finally gotten their emitters working. They were...not very polite."

"Did they call you anything related to Andorians?"

Wong turned all the way around to peer around the back of his chair to give him a puzzled look. "Uh...no?"

"Then they were just being friendly. Okay, once Jonsson gets his Swedish butt out of the nacelle and the Sawyers get back from their little tap-dance on the hull, we can get this show on the road." He stared at the console. "I'm...I'll be in he mess."

…

They didn't have pecan pie. He stared at the display, frowning. "...the hell is that?"

One of the MACO, private Settinger, leaned over his side to look. "Sticky dark chocolate cake, sir. Crispy on the crust, mushy on the inside. Tastes great with whipped cream and coffee."

"I thought I ordered pie."

She shrugged. "Seems the pie is a lie, sir."

His frown deepened. He hadn't heard _that_ old joke since he was in third grade... "I thought the _cake_ was a lie."

"Not in Starfleet, sir. Care to join us?" She indicated a mixed gaggle of crewmen and MACO seated at the large table at the center of the room. Talking, laughing...he buried a smirk. While getting the crew to know one another was just a side effect of being forced to work hard side by side for over two days, he couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried. When they got on board, everyone had been cautiously scoping one another out...and now they were friendly enough to be casual around one another.

"Don't mind if I do." He put the cake back.

…

**T Minus 3 Hours**

"So the captain takes one look at this gal, and let me remind you that Klingons are on average six feet tall, and _head-butts_ her. Knocked both himself and Tog'h out in one go. Phlox gave him one hell of a telling off after."

The laughter that rippled across the mess was genuine. Settinger popped another piece of that bitter chocolate cake in her mouth and grinned. "So what happened?"

"Next thing we knew we get a hail from the Klingon vessel. Turns out Tog'h fell in love on the spot and was eager to continue a-courting. I don't have to tell you we got the repairs done in less than an hour and got the hell out of there." He paused, for comical effect. "According to an old contact of mine, he still gets love letters from Klingon space."

The laughter was even louder this time, ensign Gibbs had to slap Settinger on the back to dislodge the cake crumbs she caught in her throat from cracking up, and Trip leaned back, smug. The captain hated that story.

_T'Pol found it funny as hell. She always did that thing with her eyebrows when I told it._

As if on cue, Gibbs gave him a mildly inquisitive glance. "Uh, sir, we're pretty much a full complement here, but some of us have been wondering...why don't we have a science officer? Or first officer, for that matter."

"Well, that's part of the reason we're members of this battle group. The science officer and first officer happens to be on the Enterprise. The _Surak_, bless their pointy ears for joining the fun, has the replacement. Some greenhorn named Skohn."

A few of the crew glanced at one another. "...are you saying our science officer is commander T'Pol? _The_ commander T'Pol?"

Trip nodded. "Yep."

…

* * *

…

**Enterprise, T Minus 1 Hour**

Malcolm rubbed the grit out of his eyes. Two hours wasn't _nearly_ enough to compensate for twenty hours without sleep, but it would have to do. Checking the sensors and noting the backlog from when he relieved lieutenant Patterson he then started making minor adjustments to the course of Package One, nothing that would show on even their own readings, using guidance thrusters alone. It was already traveling at great speed.

He frowned. Double-checked the displays. "Captain!"

Captain Archer looked up from his own fatigue-induced stupor, eyes glittering with forced energy. "What is it, Malcolm?"

"The Romulans. They're moving. And they're charging weapons."

…

* * *

…

**TBC**


	10. Adagio & Rondo

**Author's Notes:** Huh. This one didn't turn out as long as I thought. Well, all for the better. One more chapter and an epilogue left, and then I'll be moving on to the sequels, in time.

**Story so far:** Trip Tucker is alive! Well, sort of. Having faked his death a year earlier he returns to a Starfleet in wartime, where expediency and need of the many outweighs just about everything else. After being resurrected with a cockamamie bald-faced lie from Section 31, he is pressured into taking the captaincy on one of the first Buran-class starships, fast, over-powered couriers meant for less martial duties than the rest of the fleet.

Their first mission? Bail out Archer's Enterprise, under attack by Romulans in the Gamma Hydra system. After a hard, high-speed journey that broke speed limits and several vital pieces of machinery (don't worry, they fixed it...for now), the ship rendezvous' with Starfleet Battle Group Epsilon as well as a Vulcan battlecruiser and both Andorian and Tellarite warships, all given classified smuggler's routes in order to make it there as fast as possible. They're an hour from where the Enterprise is fighting a desperate fight with an overwhelming Romulan force, and the Rommies just decided to go on the offensive again...

...oh yeah, and T'Pol is..._irritated_ with him.

* * *

…

"_For a saving grace, we didn't see our dead,  
Who rarely bothered coming home to die  
But simply stayed away out there  
In the clean war, the war in the air.  
_

_Seldom the ghosts come back bearing their tales  
Of hitting the earth, the incompressible sea,  
But stayed up there in the relative wind,  
Shades fading in the mind,  
_

_Who had no graves but only epitaphs  
Where never so many spoke for never so few:  
Per ardua, said the partisans of Mars,  
Per aspera, to the stars.  
_

_That was the good war, the war we won  
As if there was no death, for goodness's sake.  
With the help of the losers we left out there  
In the air, in the empty air."_

-Howard Nemerov, "The War In The Air"

…

**Note:** The events that follow take place within roughly the same half hour.

…

**Enterprise, Gamma Hydra System. **

**Zero Hour.**

The floor shuddered as another hit struck the shields, but so far they held. T'Pol glanced at the instruments and frowned slightly. The latest power surge had burned out one of the newly repaired communications arrays, and she was not looking forward to aiding in the repairs yet again. Provided they survived, naturally.

Reed was in his true element, here. She had noted this earlier, during the first altercation with the small Romulan fleet group. He would occasionally state a need for course alterations, specific maneuvers, attack patterns or evasive actions, but apart from that he was entirely intent on his targeting displays and instruments. Trip had once told her that the Englishman had been notorious in the academy for being aimless and wandering from one course to another. It wasn't until he had been put in front of a targeting computer in a simulation of the Second Battle of Britain that he had found his true calling.

Not that he had told the story from first-hand knowledge, but since it was retold from Reed's own tales of his youth, she had no doubt it was true. Though the controls of a Harrier Flitter-craft were somewhat different from the weapons controls of an NX-class starship.

"Sir!"

She was brought out of her fatigue-induced reverie by Hoshi's alarmed voice. Archer glanced over, openly concerned. "What is it, Hoshi?"

"Sir, the Kobayashi Maru and the Devlin MacGregor report being under fire again. The Romulan fighters."

The captain paled. "...and we're too badly harried to be able to help them in any useful manner...damn it."

…

**ECAV Devlin MacGregor**

"Goddammit, why the hell are they picking on _us?_"

Felipe Cordoba glanced over at his helmsman. Grasso was a rookie, a greenhorn they'd picked up two trips back (most freighter crews counted time in journeys, not years), but he was good at his job and rarely complained. It was perhaps a sign of the difficulty he was having maneuvering the already crippled freighter that he was now cursing the fates. "We're bait. The Enterprise comes to help us, they get fired on, they stay away, we get fired on. Clever. Ruthless, but clever."

"Well I wish they'd be clever somewhere else."

"Yeah, yeah."

"And I want a pony, and a Starfleet Captain Barbie, and a brand new hovercar, and..."

He swatted the junior crewman on the back of his head, but only lightly. "Be serious."

"You want serious? _Fine_. Hull plating is failing, life support died ten minutes ago so breathe shallow, the warp core is only holding together because we're not trying to go to warp, and we lost three crew members in that last hit. _That's_ serious. Weapons are more gone than gone, and the only thing we have to defend ourselves is thrusters and basic impulse. We're a slow, dead brick in the water. In fact, it's a miracle we've lasted _this_ long."

Cordoba frowned. Things were really that bad, huh? "Do we have life-pods?"

"Yeah, but...oh, you're not telling me-"

"Ships can be bought or rebuilt. People can't. Not once they're gone. Just make sure we're close enough to atmo to make shooting them down difficult."

"...you really think they'd do that?"

"They're shooting at an unarmed freighter just to catch the attention of the Enterprise. I think they'd do much, _much_ worse."

…

**Dagger of S'Lar**

"One of the freighters is launching escape vehicles."

Commodore Valdore smirked. "Target them and fire at will."

…

**Enterprise**

Malcolm Reed stared at the screen, his face pale, his mouth in a disgusted grimace. "Good God...they're...they're firing on the _life-pods_."

Dot after dot disappeared from the three-dimensional image of the planet's orbit, and he felt nauseous. What kind of people shot down civilian life-pods just to prove a bloody _point?_

"Anyone survived?"

For a brief moment he couldn't speak, then he nodded. "One."

One lifepod. Out of a standard complement of twelve. The average freighter had a crew of, what, thirty? More than twenty dead.

"They're going after the Kobayashi Maru next."

"I know. Travis-"

"Already on it, sir."

The bridge was silent. What they were about to do would doom them as surely as anything could...but it might buy the last freighter enough time to get away.

…

* * *

…

**Constellation.**

"Warp in t minus ten...nine...eight..."

Captain Donaldson shut out the countdown. They would be in-system in minutes. And then it would begin.

"...three...two...one. _Mark_."

There was that vague sensation of motion without moving that accompanied going to warp, and the viewscreen turned from a distant view of a tiny yellow sun to a blur of stars and multicolored streaks that were planets. At warp speed, time and space became _weird_ to the naked eye. First time he'd looked out a viewport at Warp 3, he'd been forced to run to the nearest head to throw up.

You got used to it.

"Coming out of warp in five..."

"Prepare to raise shields."

"...four...three..."

He wondered if they knew what caused that.

"..._one_."

They came out of warp only a tenth of an AU near the Tellarite colony world, and as they abruptly slowed down a scene of horror faced them.

The planet's orbit was littered with battle debris, most of it Tellarite and Terran in origin. The remnants of the Serenity Valley and Devlin MacGregor was so much slowly turning flotsam, wreckage of Romulan fighter craft dotted the vacuum between the planet and it's moon, and there...

"Sir, it's the Enterprise."

"Raise shields, target the nearest Romulan and fire at will. We have to give Tucker and the others time to finish their task."

"Aye sir, raising shields. Permission to fire them one up the-"

"Permission granted, lieutenant. Don't bother asking next time."

…

**USS Heronas**

They came out of warp on the designated spot, not far from one of the gas giants protecting the system from interstellar dangers. Trip glanced at the screens. "Anything?"

"Nothing, sir. Just white noise and silence. Strongest here, so this is where their jammers are."

"We expected that. Activate."

"Aye sir." The comms officer got to work.

Sawyer glanced behind her at Trip. "Sir? Just exactly what _is_ this thing?"

He grinned. "Something we used on the Suliban a long time ago. I had to modify it according to memory and what we know of the Romulan cloaks, but it'll do the trick. It's a wide-spread quantum beacon beam, basically."

"A what?"

"Hey, I'm not supposed to have remembered how it works in the _first_ place. Anything more than that is classified."

_And Daniels is gonna be so _pissed_...serves him right._

The viewscreen flickered as the somewhat primitive reverse-engineered device sent a pulse across the nearest AU, and...

"There." Nessler touched a few controls. "Right there."

"Where? No, wait, I see it. Sawyer?"

"Firing solution ready."

Thank God it worked. "Fire."

A glittering ruby phase-beam speared through the darkness, and the small Romulan satellite detonated in a bright flash of blue and green. He idly wondered what they powered their technology with. Sure as hell wasn't anti-matter. "Okay, first trial successful. What do we have, Nessler?"

"The others are going, too. Less white noise. … even less... Oh, here we go. General distress call from the Kobayashi Maru and the Enterprise. We have comms, sir."

"Excellent. Tell our friends it's go-time."

…

**Enterprise**

"Sir, the_ Devlin MacGregor _is burning up in the atmosphere, and the _Maru_ is next. Shields are fifteen percent, photonics are gone, and the warp core is close to cracking. We only have hours, at best."

Travis listened with half an ear as he brought the ship around in a graceful arc that not only looked damn good to anyone watching but also brought them just out of firing range of the Romulan battlecruiser.

"Where's the package?"

"...in position. Sir, I still say you-"

"_No_, Malcolm. I appreciate it, though. But a captain always goes down with his ship. Give them our present."

Reed grumbled something under his breath, but complied. With his entire concentration on keeping the ship from getting hammered too badly Travis only saw glimpses of what was going on, mostly because he had to check his own lidar screen and optics. A small dot suddenly detached from beyond the moon, accelerating fast. He grinned evilly and whispered softly; "Candy-gram for Mongo..."

…

**Sheltering Wing, Vetrek-Class Assault Carrier**

Captain Chvalkh smirked to himself. The remaining fighters were once again being re-armed, the main weapons might actually stand a chance of coming online in the next minute, and the humans were losing, badly. This would be a day of glory for the Empire.

"...captain, I'm detecting two new objects, approaching fast."

_What?_

"Which one is closest?"

"...it's small, barely shuttle-sized. Fast, though. No life readings."

"Target it and fire. We do have disruptors again, right?"

"Yes, captain."

The ship vibrated as powerful capacitors shunted energy into the disruptor cannons mounted on the vast wings, and...

"...oh, no."

"What?"

"Scans indicate a vast amount of uranium isotope-"

The shuttlepod effortlessly outflew the slow disruptors of the carrier, her deadly payload filling the small crew compartment entirely. It had taken the better part of a day to position it where it had been, and half a day to modify the engines to overdrive. It had a single long burst of thrust, but that was more than enough to bring her to _double_ normal impulse. At a speed approaching half the speed of light, and it was aimed right for the carrier.

The Romulan carrier's shields popped in a brief glimmer of light and the shuttlepod smashed into the hangar at full throttle. Inside, trigger mechanisms sensitive to such a heavy impact activated, and sent electrical impulses into two spherical containers that occupied the compartment entirely (they had even ripped out the seats and cabinets to make them fit).

In twin flashes of nuclear light, the Sheltering Wing was torn apart from within.

…

**Enterprise**

Malcolm Reed grinned as the enormous carrier vanished in atomic fire, his expression feral. "See how _you_ like it, you _wankers_..."

He glanced down at his screens, and frowned. "Damn. They're concentrating fire on the Maru."

Running a trembling hand through his hair he noted a sore, singed eyebrow with an air of detachment he wouldn't think he was capable of. They were going to die. Usually when he had that thought it was accompanied by a morbid sense of peace, now he only felt vague irritation. _Why _now_ of all times?_

"Set the containment field on the warp core on timed shutdown."

Malcolm turned around, stared at the captain. All he saw was grim determination. Glancing around the bridge he saw only sparking consoles, loose cables and wiring, cracked floor-panels, and the same expression on each and every face. Travis looked...peaceful. T'Pol had only a raised eyebrow, but it wasn't the disapproving one. Hoshi...gave him a small smile.

_Well, at least we'll die together._

He grinned back at her. "Aye sir."

"Give us full thrust, Mr. Mayweather. Aim for that big, fat, ugly one." Archer leaned back, crossing his legs. If you didn't know better you'd think he was ordering them to set a course for Risa.

"They're _all_ big, fat and ugly, sir." Mayweather was smiling openly now.

"Surprise me. The biggest one."

"Aye sir. Setting course."

…

**Dagger of S'Lar**

Valdore stared at the screens without comprehending. He blinked, twice with each set of eyelids. "..._gone?_"

"Yes, captain. It appears they detached their shuttlepod earlier and auto-piloted it into the Sheltering Wing. It was carrying two fission bombs."

"Captain!"

He turned to glare at the comms officer. _"What!"_

"The Enterprise...she's set a course for..." The woman swallowed. "..._us_, sir. Ramming speed."

"Evasive action!"

Behind him, many new shadows appeared on the tactical display, but the attention of every single bridge officer was held fast by the blurry optical display showing the badly damaged Terran vessel headed straight for them. Thus it was that the next move of the NX-class flagship of Earth's Starfleet puzzled them for a fatal instant.

_She veered off._

…

**Enterprise**

"Sir, they're _ours_. It's...it's the _Constellation_, and the _Taurus_, the _Falcon_, the _Van Vogt_...at least nine Starfleet vessels."

T'Pol glanced at her instruments. "There is also the _Surak_ and an Andorian battlecruiser I do not recognize the designation of. I am also detecting that two of the Starfleet vessels are of an unknown class, their IFF checks out, but-"

Archer felt his spine heat up with intense joy and relief and a dozen other emotions. _How? How did..._

"Sir, we're receiving a hail."

"On screen."

A familiar face appeared, shit-eating grin on his face. _"Man, I can't leave you guys alone for one _second_."_ He glanced to the side, at someone out of sight. _"Sawyer, give'em a broadside. Show'em what for."_

"Trip!"

…

**Dagger of S'Lar**

"Captain, we just lost _Blade of_...oh, gods, no..."

On the viewscreen, another ship of the battlegroups disintegrated into cosmic dust under the heavy fire from Terran, Vulcan, Andorian and Tellarite guns. Valdore looked around at his bridge crew, and saw only horror. Triumph had been so _close_...

"Do...do we have cloak?"

"No, captain."

"Can we retreat?"

"...no, captain."

"Then we ram _them_."

"Captain, with all due respect...we have _lost_. We have nowhere near the maneuverability to-"

"_Ram them!"_ Had his voice cracked? No. His voice couldn't crack. This was not a defeat. Only a setback. They would...they would...

…

**USS Heronas**

"That one. The big cruiser. They're starting to move. I think they're...they're accelerating. Heading for the Enterprise."

Trip glanced at Nessler. _Damn_. "Can they get out of the way?"

"At that close range? No, sir."

"And the others-"

"Not close enough, sir. Only us."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Sawyer?"

"Yessir?"

"Taze'em."

"Aye sir. Tazing the enemy, sir."

The thing about Romulan shields was that it took too damn long to wear them down. The other thing was that the Orions had stolen a _lot_ of their technology from the Romulans. Especially propulsion, and tying all vital systems into the engine.

What this meant was that they had a single big weakness to a man who had once taken out an Orion cruiser with nothing but a tow-cable and some clever ideas.

The blue targeting laser emanating from the small addition to the Heronas' hull flickered to life, painting a small blue dot on the hull of the _Dagger of S'Lar_. The dot, unhindered by shields since nobody bothered to shield against lasers these days (lasers did very little to the hulls of most spacefaring races' vessels), made an erratic path across the surface until finally it found a small lump-like protrusion near the aft, and focused. The beam grew in intensity until the beam actually became visible to the naked eye, and-

Sawyer fired the 'tazer'.

A pulse of greenish light accompanied the otherwise impossible to see positrons as they made their way along the neat path the targeting laser had excited for them. The pulse struck home, and in only half a heart beat the effects became visible as the engine core of the Romulan battlecruiser overloaded, shut down, thus causing small explosions across the hull as the surplus energy took out system after system. Careening wildly, the cruiser lost the trajectory it had begun and instead began to fall towards the nearest major gravity well, unhindered by impulse engines and thrusters.

…

**Dagger of S'Lar**

Commodore Valdore slowly crawled to his feet. His face was bleeding profusely, and his ribs ached, but he was alive. Glancing around showed that he was the only one. He stood there and stared at the screen as the hull began to heat up from entry into the atmosphere. Flames all around him lit the bridge, the only light apart from the viewscreen, and he stretched his arms out to his sides and laughed as the optics melted and-

…

**Enterprise**

"...she's gone, sir. Breaking up in he atmosphere."

No-one felt like cheering. Archer took a deep, ragged breath, then another. "Could someone shut down the countdown for the containment field? I'd appreciate it."

T'Pol barely glanced back. "Already done, captain. May I suggest we see if the _Kobayashi Maru_ made it?

"...please do." He leaned back, feeling the tension drain from his body.

We're alive. We're alive. We're still alive.

"Sir...the _Kobayashi Maru_...she didn't...there are lifepods, but the ship is..."

He closed his eyes. Not enough. We didn't do enough.

"How many?"

"...about half, sir. Most are going down to the planet."

"The Tellarites can receive them. Let them know. What about the other-"

"A single Romulan cruiser managed to escape, though it was badly damaged. The Verkaza'an is in pursuit."

He frowned. "The what?"

"The Andorian battlecruiser." Hoshi was looking decidedly less calm now that they weren't facing certain death anymore, which would be funny if he wasn't so damned tired. "Their captain left a message."

"What is it?"

"_'Now you owe me another one, pinkskin.'_"

He grinned in spite of himself. All right, that one _was_ funny. "Shran."

"Yessir. The _Van Vogt_ and _Heronas_ are asking if we need assistance."

"Tell them not only yes, but _hell_ yes. Oh, and tell Trip he still owes me a bottle of Scotch."

…

T'Pol ran her hands over instruments, noting damage reports, delegating repairs, everything she was there to do. Five crew men had died, two MACO had perished in rescue efforts in damaged sectors, the warp core would require replacing or extensive repairs...she would be quite busy for some time.

To her mild consternation she couldn't suppress the treacherous thought that followed that conclusion.

_The busier I am, the less chances are that I have to speak to him._

…

_To Be Concluded..._


	11. Calm After The Storm

**Author's Note:** Nope, T'Pol doesn't know her final transfer orders came through (or that they have been altered). That one happened while the Enterprise was incommunicado. She's about to find out...

Also, for those who haven't, check out YouTube for a video called "STAR TREK 40th Anniversary Tribute 1966-2006". Whoever made it truly gets Trek in ways few others seem to in this day and age.

* * *

…

"_I've been drivin' all night, my hand's wet on the wheel  
There's a voice in my head that drives my heel  
It's my baby callin', says I need you here  
And it's a half past four and I'm shiftin' gear  
When she is lonely and the longing gets too much  
She sends a cable comin' in from above  
Don't need no phone at all  
We've got a thing that's called Radar Love"_

-Golden Earring, "Radar Love"

…

**Enterprise, In Orbit, Gamma Hydra II Trading Colony**

Gamma Hydra was not a populous system. The small Tellarite trading colony on the second planet from the sun had a thriving population of six thousand, and on a busy day you would see as many as three freighters in the system. Which meant, basically, that the ten Starfleet vessels, lone Vulcan and Andorian vessels and two Tellarite cruisers, all in orbit, were more excitement than the locals had seen since the founding some hundred and fifty human years earlier.

Captain Jonathan Archer walked down hallways busy with repair work, crew running back and forth carrying messages to sections where comms were out, the occasional crewman ending a long shift...but they were alive. Most of them. Crewman Hengis approached him from the nearby hallway, a familiar face in her arms.

"Porthos! How are you, buddy?" The beagle crawled out of her grip and into Archer's and eagerly licked his face, seemingly unaware of the tight wrapping on his own front right paw. A small injury only, but since the number of casualties had been so low it had been no problem for Phlox to help out. The stitches would be in for a few days, though. "I know, I know..."

"Will there be anything else, sir?" Hengis looked worried. Oh, right. Crewman Torres. Regulations frowned on that sort of thing, but...

"No, thank you. You can go about your business." He paused. "She likes chocolates."

Hengis blushed furiously, but nodded. "Yessir. I know."

…

His quarters were not entirely in order. Even the locker had rattled loose from the wall, which said something about the hits they'd been taking considering his quarters hadn't been in the targeted areas. Setting Porthos down he set to work straightening up, putting clothes back in their drawers, adjusting crooked photographs, even setting aright his sheets, though he had only himself to blame for the mussed-up bed.

With great effort he resisted lying down on it. Sleep was something to be undertaken very soon, but first he had things to do. People to talk to. Including Trip.

The comms bleeped. _"Bridge to captain Archer."_

"Go ahead, bridge."

There was definite amusement in Hoshi's voice. _"Incoming call from the _Heronas_. You want to-"_

"I'll take it in here, thanks."

_Heronas_. Something familiar about that name. Damned if he could remember, though. However, since the second Buran-class to arrive was named the _James Watt_ he guessed it had something to do with engineers or inventors. The _JW_ was the prototype, and had up until a month ago been known as the BX-01. Did this mean the NX-class was going to be renamed some day soon?

The image of Trip appeared on his screen, and he had to remove his fallen award box from the seat before sitting down on it.

"_Messy apartment, Jon?"_

"Very funny, Trip. So how's being captain agreeing with you?"

"_Not amazingly. Double the work, triple the responsibilities. But you know that. Speaking of...I have some bad news for you."_

"Oh? What might that be?"

Trip actually did look ill at ease with what he was about to say, which suggested something wasn't entirely right. _"Well, I'm sad to say I'm going to have to steal an officer from you..."_

…

Ten minutes later Archer stood in front of his first officer's quarters, hand poised to knock. He'd been forced to order her off the bridge after she'd started lapsing into speaking Vulcan every now and then. That was ten hours ago. He was just about to-

"Enter."

Okay...he _really_ had to start remembering the hearing thing. The door slid open, and he was faced with a science officer who didn't look quite as exhausted as she had earlier. Not that she looked all that healthy or happy, as far as Vulcans went. If he didn't know better he might even call her haggard.

"Captain." She didn't even look up, or open her eyes for that matter. Seated for meditation, candles lit, the lights dimmed..._oh_.

"I...ah - it's good that you're sitting down, I guess. Sorry for interrupting your...I have some news for you."

She looked up, now, one eyebrow curious. "Oh?"

"You know that admiral Gardner had petitioned for you to be transferred to the Copernicus?"

She nodded. "I am aware. It is not a choice of posting I would select."

_In other words, you hate the very idea. Great. Something tells me you won't be thrilled about this either._

"Well, those orders were changed, shortly before Gardner apparently fell ill. Heart condition." He folded his hands together, fingers interlocking. It was a nervous habit of his that he'd never been able to rid himself of. "You're no longer to be posted on the Copernicus. You're to take the position of first officer as well as science officer on the USS _Heronas_. Effective...well, the moment you set foot on board that ship, I suppose."

A muscle in her left cheek twitched, and her eyes briefly flicked from one end of the room to the other. "I see."

Somehow this calm veneer frightened him even more than if she'd showed a _little_ of the old T'Pol, the barely held-back emotion, the slight flaring of nostrils, the raising of eyebrows. Instead she merely nodded. "I will be packed within twenty-four hours. Is there a replacement ready?"

"Ah, _yeah_...the Vulcan High..._Council_ suggested that, in order to maintain the relations harmed by their neutrality in this war, they'd send an officer to replace you. I'd argue _against_ it, but...like it or not, Vulcan _is_ ahead of us in most scientific matters."

Now the curious brow rose again. "Who did they send?"

"Some whiz kid named Skohn."

She frowned, searching her memory. "I know his name. He was held back six times from promotions by the previous government. Rumor had it he was considered volatile and unorthodox, and that his scientific credentials were...questionable."

Archer winced. "Yeah, well, it seems he might just have been a victim of politics, because in the file _we_ got, he's a former Syrranite, and has gone up the ranks to sub-commander in less than a year. He's currently serving on the Surak as a weapons officer, so he'll transfer over the moment he's free. They took a few hits in the battle, and he's also examining the devices Trip dreamed up."

"If he was recommended by the current government then his former reputation was no doubt not entirely deserved. He will probably be an adequate replacement."

"Yeah. If this works out, Starfleet might start a new tradition of Vulcans on board our ships. But...he's not _you_." He rubbed his face to push some of the weariness out of it. This wasn't how he wanted this to go. Altogether too morose. Time to change that. "I hereby invite you to your own farewell party, in the mess, twelve hours from now. Get your rest. You'll need it."

The frown deepened, minutely. "I fail to see the point of such an event."

He smiled, hoping he didn't look as sad as he felt. "Well, to be honest it's not _entirely_ for _you_. With the deaths of several of our crew in the battle and the funerals having been done, everyone's in a foul mood. Double shifts on repairs _isn't_ helping, _either_. So you're going to be there, you're going to mingle, accept going-away presents scrounged up in the nick of time and pretend as if it's enjoyable. Well, _acceptable_ in your case."

She looked at him, and he resisted the urge to flinch. There was something behind those eyes... "Am I to believe I have no choice?"

"Not really, no."

…

Sleep, when it came, was an ineffectual balm on jagged nerves. T'Pol had never entirely appreciated actual sleep, much preferring the calm solitude and contemplative opportunity of meditation. But during her relationship with Trip she had learned that luxuriating in a few extra hours of sleep could provide much of the clarity and focus she usually found while meditating, and supplementing sleep with a somewhat lessened such regimen was most adequate.

But the _dream_ had come back this time. The drowning, the sensation of losing all spatial orientation and the sensation of being unable to breathe...she woke up twice in six hours, and though she was physically rested, it was not a _good_ rest. By the time she gave up on both practices, her mild headache had intensified, and she decided to visit the doctor for a minor exam.

"Migraine."

She gave him a look of disbelief. "Vulcans do not get migraines."

"This one does." Phlox smiled at her in return, putting his medical scanner aside. The practice of using so-called tricorders had become common among medical professionals everywhere, and she sometimes felt a minor desire to possess something equally finely tuned and sensitive for general examinations during away missions. But the sheer amount of sensors necessary - not to mention the power requirements - would make such a device unbearably clumsy. Still...it was something to consider. The hand-scanners currently in use were woefully inadequate.

_Trip would likely have a solution._

She frowned at the thought, unbidden and unwelcome as it was.

"...commander?"

She blinked, and realized Phlox had been speaking to her for some time. "My apologies. I was distracted."

"So I see. Well, it's nothing serious, as I was saying. Minor swelling of blood vessels due to stress, fatigue and lack of sleep. It'll pass in a few hours. If you would like a mild analgesic..."

"Thank you, but that will not be necessary. I have duties to perform, and I must finish packing."

The doctor nodded, watching her as she hopped off the biobed and picked up her padd. As she was almost out the door, however, he called out. She turned, raising an eyebrow in query.

"I...Denobulans do not look at working or familial relationships quite the same as humans do. When a co-worker or friend leaves for another posting or other reason, we do not celebrate, nor do we grieve. Usually we remain in correspondence with them in some form, because as far as we're concerned, distance is easy to overcome. However, I hope you don't mind that I state that _some_ human customs..._some_ of their customs are both admirable and worth borrowing. It has been a _pleasure_ serving with you, commander. Know that."

She stared at him. Emotional displays usually did nonplus her, mainly because she was always uncertain as to how to proceed in return. Learning to recognize an emotion for what it was, was one thing, knowing how to respond was quite another. Finally, she nodded. "It has been quite agreeable working with you as well, doctor Phlox."

He smiled his unsettlingly wide smile, and then said something that disturbed her as well as pleased her.

"Did you know you're the first Vulcan I ever met who ever said 'thank you' to me?"

…

For a pilot, prolonged repair work and downtime was about the dullest time possible. For a very good reason, too; if the ship was in orbit being repaired, the pilot was completely useless. So Travis Mayweather tried to catch up on his reading, then watched a couple grav-ball games he'd queued up, then worked out for two hours, and finally gave up. He was bored. Bored, bored, _bored_.

After some waffling back and forth he decided he was hungry, so he made his way to the mess and grabbed some quiche from the dispenser, made himself a cup of strong coffee and joined the others in the informally named gossip corner.

"Did you hear? The commander is transferring." That was Milligan from maintenance.

He frowned. "They're really sending her to the _Copernicus_? That's stupid."

Hoshi shook her head. "No, her orders were changed. She's going to the _Heronas_."

For a moment, he just gawked. Then he sat down, hard. "The...she's going to _Trip's_ ship?"

An irrational part of him told him she was lucky. He'd seen the ship in action from the sensor readings, and had gotten to watch it from a distance as it glided past them a few hours ago. It wasn't pretty, but the things he could do with a ship _that_ fast...

"Uh-huh. _Someone_ thought it'd be a good idea. Me, I'm not so sure about that right now."

"Why's that?" The quiche went down more through inhalation than mastication. _Must have been hungrier than I thought._

"Well, you didn't hear this from any of us, but rumors have it that the commander is not happy with her returned-from-the-dead beau. No idea why, she's just unusually frosty when anyone brings him up."

He frowned. "How can you tell? Honestly?"

"Oh, you can tell. Even Vulcans show when they're not happy about something. Or 'pleased', I think they'd say."

"Well, have they met up yet?" _Good coffee. Damned good coffee. Might be the caffeine talking, though._

"Nope. He's busy helping out everywhere it's needed, she's busy making sure stuff works and getting ready to transfer...I bet they haven't even spoken on comms yet. He's coming aboard in an hour or so, though. Captain's business."

Travis nodded, not saying anything. People often said he was a quiet one, but he'd been told over and over at an early age that it was better to keep your mouth shut and look a little dopey than opening it and proving you were the dope of dopes. Besides, you learned more by listening than by talking. Still, you'd have to be blind not to know _something_ was going on between their Vulcan science officer and their former chief engineer returned from the grave.

That part kept bothering him. Hadn't witness reports said he was vaporized? As far as he knew, Romulan disruptors didn't leave much behind. How could he have been kidnapped and put to work as slave labor in some unknown mining camp if anyone who saw him last reported him being reduced to glowing motes of green energy?

...wait, did the Romulans even _have_ transporter technology yet? They didn't even use standard warp drives, instead using some kind of weird slipstream thing using cosmic super-strings to get the closest equivalent, or tagging along in the warp wake of other ships. Or at least that was the working theory. Nobody knew for sure since the Romulans never allowed their technology to fall into human hands. Presumably the flagship they'd been up against this time had used the latter, following them for...God, how long _did_ they follow the Enterprise?

_Coffee is going cold. _

He finished his beverage and started to listen for real now...

…

Chef Drexler frowned at the menu. Was it too much to ask for a _little_ variety? A shrimp? Maybe two? But since the parting party was Vulcan, there had been a strict ban on any and all animal, piscine or avian protein, meat or other such products. Nothing but vegan options. Including cooking fats and such. Fine. Two could play that game. He'd make the best damn vegan buffet ever, and they'd be happy about it. Or else. Thank God the Vulcans didn't mind yeast. Not being able to make any kind of bread-product would have been truly crippling.

In the end he was faced with a large stir-fry using peanuts, cashews, fresh mushrooms, baby onions, bell peppers and bamboo shoots, served with wild rice and a side sauce made from soy, roasted and pureed mild chili and pine nuts. Then hors d'oeuvre consisting of finely chopped and fried leek and mushrooms, not to mention the assortment of raw, finely sliced root vegetables and various dips using not a single dairy product. A masterpiece, even for himself. And the only seasonings he'd allowed himself were salt, ginger, coriander and black pepper.

_Damn pointy-eared woman better be happy with it. Six years, and not a single word of praise. Not one. Might as well serve her rocks. Still, could be worse. Could be still working under Namber and Garba in Starfleet Accounting & Resources. Those guys were weird. No, being a chef is much better than being an accountant._

He turned around, grumbling softly to himself, and found himself face to face with the subject of the evening's party.

"_Commander_? Uh, I, w-what are you doing in _here_? Uh, I mean, that is-"

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow, then glanced over his shoulder. "Is that the menu for tonight?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah it is. Nothing animal, no fish, no birds, no pork, beef, dairy, not even bugs or grubs. All vegetarian."

She simply nodded. "Very well."

Then she glanced at him. "I suspect I have been somewhat less than forthcoming with verbal praise in my time here. You may perhaps find some consolation in the fact that Vulcans rarely, if ever, praise efforts above the average. More often, such efforts are simply accepted as they are. If we are not satisfied with something, we generally let them know."

He blinked. The commander nodded briefly, then vanished as quietly as she had arrived.

_Huh. So what she's saying is that Vulcans believe in letting their appetite speak for itself._

He grinned. Well, maybe she _wasn't_ such a bad person _after_ all.

_I wonder if I have time to make some pecan pie..._

…

"Major."

Amanda Cole glanced over at her approaching superior officer and acknowledged him with a nod. "Sir."

"I was wondering if you had a few of your best EVA-cleared men available for some repair work duty. The torpedo launchers have some exterior damage that I want fixed before today's shifts are over."

A brief mental rundown of who knew what provided her with an answer. "I'll have Jenkins and Vanderwelt get a couple of teams ready."

"Excellent. Let me know how it goes." Lieutenant commander Reed started to walk away again, but then hesitated, turned around, and looked at her. "Why are you here by the airlocks, I don't recall there being..." He fell silent, then smirked slightly. "_Ah_."

In spite of herself she felt her neck heat up a bit. "Sir?"

The smirk turned into the faint, sarcastic sneer he developed when he found something amusing. "Oh, nothing. Just...don't get in the way."

The blush threatened to reach her cheeks now. "I have no idea what you're talking about, sir."

The amusement went away. "I'm serious, major. Your health might depend on it."

She frowned. "Sir?"

"Let me put it this way; do you remember the broken collar bone you had back in the Expanse a few years ago? I believe you had taken up commander T'Pol on an offer of Vulcan neuropressure?"

For a moment she was confused. _Wait, that was way back when - oh.._. "I see your point. I'll proceed with caution, if I do."

Reed smiled, a little friendlier this time. "See that you do. If he asks about me or any of the others, we'll be in the mess."

"Will do, sir."

When he was gone she resumed her position by the airlock entrance and her current hobby of mild fretting.

Okay, sure. She kind of suspected all along that there was something going on with the first officer and Trip. A hairline fracture in her collar bone that had put her out of the fighting for a month after was a pretty big hint that you simply did _not_ express admiration for him in the Vulcan woman's presence. Especially if she was in a position to hurt you, whether unintentionally or not.

But that had been a _long_ time ago, and as far as _she_ knew they'd been separated at the time he seemingly died...so surely there was a shot? Yeah, she still had a bit of a torch going for him. He _was_ the one that got _away_, after all. And now she might have another go at it. Yeah, maybe invite him over for some dinner, drinks, a movie...he liked old movies, just like her, so there was an advantage.

The airlock began to cycle, and she stood at attention. Okay. Was she wearing too much make-up? No, just the minimum allowed, no problem there. But as she got ready to pounce (in a totally casual, non-interested way, of course) a pair of voices drifting down the hall made her heart sink into her stomach.

"...and the starboard nacelle needs extensive repairs before using it again. I have taken the liberty of putting together a full list of all the necessary-"

"I'm sure you have, commander, and I'll read it in a short while. But if you don't mind, we have visitors?"

There was a brief, awkward pause, and then; "Certainly."

_Crap._

"Major."

"Captain." Wow. She was _really_ giving her the stink-eye. Not just the standard command crew sneering at the brute squad, either, no, this was _personal_. Funny how she could radiate animosity without her expression changing by so much as a hair.

"Commander."

"Major." Oh yeah. That was a pondscum glare if ever she saw one.

Okay. So. Maybe not as much of a shoo-in as she'd thought.

And then the door opened and he sauntered in like it was only yesterday he'd left.

…

Jonathan Archer had never claimed to be one to understand the opposite sex all that well, as evidenced by his distinct lack of success with it. He _did_ know that some men knew how to manipulate, which unerringly came back to bite them on the ass later, and that _some_ men would _always_ have problems with socializing with their preferred gender. A lot of it came down to confidence issues. But sometimes there were these guys who just...well, no matter _what_ they did women tended to chase _them_, and usually these men were totally unaware of it. Usually it took fairly blatant actions for them to get it.

Trip was one of those.

QED.

Two women glaring daggers at one another, and all he could say and do was look straight at Jon and smile. "Permission to come aboard, cap'n?"

"Permission granted." He followed that up by closing the distance and giving his oldest, best friend a bear hug that was somewhat less than professional in conduct. "Welcome aboard, _captain_ Tucker."

…

"Ow, ow, _ow_, not so tight! Good to see you, cap'n."

"Oh, please, it's _Jon_ now. I'm not your captain anymore, _remember?_"

Amanda held down an amused smirk.

" Hell, you'll always be cap'n to me. Even when I'm admiral and you're demoted to some garbage tug off Jupiter Station." The grin took the edge of the comment, and Archer snorted in response.

"You wish. So, I take it this is a social call?"

Trip looked a bit embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck as he replied. "Not quite. I'm sort of ferrying over a future crew member for you, he was done with his tasks and decided he'd use the extra time to get acquainted with everyone."

Stepping aside he revealed a second passenger from inside the docked shuttlepod, a tall, dour-looking Vulcan in full robes, his hair the standard bowl-cut, and...wait, was he wearing a Starfleet badge?

"I'd like to introduce subcommander Skohn, subcommander, meet Jonathan Archer and the woman whose shoes you're gonna have a hard time trying to fill, commander T'Pol."

Skohn nodded, briefly, then raised his hand in the split-fingered salute. "Live long and prosper, captain Archer. Commander T'Pol. I take it I have been assigned quarters?"

Archer nodded. "We'll get to that. First I'd like for us to take this to my ready room. If you'll follow me?"

The four walked away, and Amanda took the opportunity to take a closer look at the newcomer. His _behind_ to be exact.

_Hmmm. Not bad. Not bad at all._

…

T'Pol remained silent for most of the idle conversation between captain Archer and Trip. Not too far from them stood major Cole, but as subcommander Skohn was introduced and they made their way to the captain's quarters the major was forced to remain behind, not being invited. She had to admit to a slight sense of relief at that, though she could not say why.

"So, I hear you've made quite the rise in the ranks, subcommander?"

Skohn inclined his head slightly. "According to my wife I was long overdue. Personally I find ambition for higher positions illogical other than as a means of betterment for all."

Major Cole's mouth twitched, and Archer looked surprised. "You're a married man, Skohn?"

"Yes. Her name is T'Rama. She remains on Alpha Centauri where I was stationed before being accepted back into service to Vulcan."

"That's right, during the last few years of the old High Command you worked at the Cochrane Institute?"

"Indeed. It was a highly stimulating experience."

She felt her eyes widen slightly in shock. He had _smiled_. When mentioning his time at Alpha Centauri, he had smiled, however minutely.

And captain Archer and Trip had _noticed_. The captain glanced briefly at T'Pol, who suddenly found her hands in her lap to be highly interesting subjects of study. "I...see. Were you the only non-human there?"

"No. Several Denobulans were there as well, and I found many an opportunity for interesting conversation with a Trill named Tobin Dax. We were colleagues on the warp 7 project."

The captain leaned in closer, his interest piqued. "I'm not familiar with the species."

"The Trill are an intriguing phenomenon. A sizable minority enter into a co-dependent symbiosis with a native species of symbiotes. The resulting individual is generally a mixture of both personalities, and the benefits for the host is a prolonged lifespan and access to several lifetimes of memories from previous such host-symbiote relationships. I believe the symbiotes themselves resemble soft cephalopods."

Trip looked visibly disturbed, and the captain wrinkled his brow in that way he did when unsure how to respond. "You mean they _volunteer_ to put a - a _squid_ in their head?"

"On the contrary. They resemble Terran sea slugs more aptly than octopi, and they reside in the torso near the spine, behind the internal organs."

...she could have sworn Trip's face had gained a healthy Vulcan blush for a moment, then she remembered that turning green was a sign of nausea in humans. To his relief, the captain steered the conversation away from the Trill, possibly to save face for his friend.

"You mentioned a wife...any children?"

"Not yet. Though we _are_ planning for two boys. My house is an old one, and of late there has been a surplus of female births."

"Your house?"

She could help there. "A remnant of the familial structures from before the Awakening. Several noble houses have remained to this day, though some have lost power in tandem with gaining enlightenment. I believe you have met a member of his house before."

Archer blinked. "Who?"

Skohn inclined his head in that gentle gesture of humility he had used before. "A very distant cousin of mine. Minister T'Pau."

"Oh."

…

The conversation continued for some time, and then finally Jonathan volunteered to show the subcommander his quarters. It had been agreed that since the new science officer would not be first officer, that dubious honor had fallen on Malcolm, he would have his quarters with the rest of the crew. It didn't hurt that he had less of a reaction to the smell of humans than his predecessor did.

But this left Trip alone in the ready room with T'Pol.

In a seldom seen display of total honesty with himself he admitted that he had dreaded this since the day his mission in Romulan space had been completed.

"So..."

She raised an eyebrow at him. Not the amused one. Definitely not the curious one. The indifferent one.

"I like the hair. Looks good on you." _Not_ what he had intended to say. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

She kept the eyebrow up. "I found that cutting my own hair would be clumsy, and the ship's barber is busy enough as it is with the regular crew."

"Not what I meant."

Now the second eyebrow joined the first. "What did you mean, then?"

For a moment he pondered telling her, then decided against it. This was not a good time to have that discussion. "...never mind."

The awkward silence fell on the room like a thick blanket, drowning out everything else. He fidgeted, glanced at the captain's model ships on the shelves. He frowned slightly. Was that a radio-controlled model ship hidden behind his desk? Why was the nacelle all busted?

"...you look thin."

He suppressed a start, and blinked at her in slight confusion. Then he shrugged. "Yeah. Didn't eat real well the past year or so."

"I see."

That seemed to be the end of it. But when he got up to make his way back to the shuttlepod, she grabbed his arm, _tight_. Painfully so. Her face displayed nothing, not anger, not sadness, not anything. But the wave of emotion that rushed through him when she touched his arm let him know that she was..._not_ pleased.

"We _will_ discuss the past year." She might as well have been ordering a pizza for all the inflection she used. Still, her fingers _were_ digging into his arm in an almost painful manner.

He nodded. "Yeah. Soon."

She let go of his arm with a nod. "Soon."

…

T'Pol requisitioned two large suitcases from the quartermaster, her usual duffel was inadequate for the sheer amount of personal belongings she had accumulated over the past six years, and so she was carrying both of the empty containers towards her quarters when her replacement caught up with her.

"Commander. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?"

She hesitated. "Very well. If you don't mind speaking while I pack."

"Not at all. It is an efficient way of utilizing your time."

She went inside, placing one suitcase by the end of the bed, lifting and opening the second and placing it on top her her sheets. "Do you have questions about your tasks on the ship?"

He shook his head no. "I am fairly certain I will be mainly engaged in monitoring results from sensor sweeps, coming up with scientific solutions to unorthodox problems and general 'troubleshooting', as the humans name it. Not too dissimilar to my daily routines at the Cochrane Institute. Though perhaps more stressful. I look forward to it."

There was that faint smile again.

"Then what is the nature of your concern?" The silk robes and pajamas at the very bottom, to be pressed by the weight of the other clothes. The functional underwear next. Then blouses, undershirts, shirts, trousers, jumpsuits...

"How long have you and captain Tucker been bonded as mates?"

She froze. Then continued folding away her clothes.

"I ask because I recognize it. While you were in proximity, you both displayed subconscious signs of synchronized behavior similar to that of those in the early stages of a mating bond. Me and my wife tend to do the same."

Hygiene products went into a small case made of plastic, towels and extra sheets next to it, excursion clothes on top of those. Done.

"I fail to see the relevance."

Skohn used the wide sleeves of his robe to cover his hands. It was a common habit for many who wore such garments, even among humans. "Perhaps there is none. I am aware of the stigma the previous government placed on admitting that touch telepathy is a fairly common, if undeveloped, feature in our species, and was wondering if perhaps the unease you both showed in the presence of one another was a sign of this bond being unwelcome."

"It was not. His being human seems to have made it unusually strong, but-"

"You misunderstand." He glanced at her shelves, and the figure of Frankenstein's Monster placed upon one of them. "I am not disapproving, merely asking if your bond is something you find unwelcome. In spite of the attitudes of the previous Science Council, mating bonds with other species are rare, but not unheard of. It appears all that is necessary is a mutual, deeply held attraction and willingness to pursue it. It is neither casual nor shallow. That said, sometimes a bond is formed with a mated pair that loses their attraction to one another."

That little incoherent ball of emotions that she kept suppressed at all times suggested she throttle the life out of this smug Syrranite, but as usual she refused to listen to it. "The attraction is not lost. But I can only speak for myself. Our bond has been...suppressed, for a year. It may be erratic."

He raised an eyebrow. It was unsettling how insufferable such a gesture could be when someone else was doing it. "Fascinating. I suggest you make certain of one another's intentions, and soon. Mating bonds that are left undeveloped can sometimes turn towards the negative. But I believe I have taken enough of your time. Live long and prosper."

"Peace and long life." She watched the man who would take her place on the Enterprise leave her quarters and found that peace was the farthest thing from her mind at the moment.

…

* * *

…

The party was a fairly subdued affair, but everyone was in good humor and since the food was excellent, the drinks were plentiful and the company was actually fairly social, everyone was enjoying themselves. A few complained jokingly that the drinks were non-alcoholic, but they were in the minority.

T'Pol had to admit, finally, that this was..._acceptable_.

But then came the farewell gifts. And for each heartfelt little speech from those who presented them to her, she found her emotional control eroding ever so slightly.

Lieutenant commander Hess spoke for the crew Engineering as she presented their gift; a whole bowl of peaches. The brunette smiled at her. "Well, turns out Trip gave us all some peaches from this shipment he got a couple years ago, and we only managed to go through about half of them...so we collected the last ones and decided you'd like them a lot more than we did. Thank God for stasis units, huh?"

Did they know? No, likely not. They only counted on her having a vegetarian diet and appreciating a gift of fruit. Still, the scent brought back a sense memory of a time in the Expanse when...she blinked, and inclined her head in acceptance. "It is a thoughtful gift. I will savor it."

Hess smiled again, scratched her head in embarrassment, then made way for the next in line. Hoshi.

"Well, I figured with your taste in human literature and media being what it was..." She presented a box filled with-

"Fascinating." Several bound volumes of books, more precisely the works of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley in High Vulcan. Going by the brief glance at the contents, the translation was _very_ well done. The other volumes included contained several other works by human science fiction authors from the following century and a half. It appeared she knew T'Pol too well.

"This could not be something you prepared recently, how did you..."

"Well, I translate stuff. Mostly cultural bits. Since I always liked holding real books over padds, I had Perkins in Maintenance help me with the printing. And when I heard Skohn was working on a translation of the Kir'Shara to English, I figured it was about time the cultural exchange got broadened beyond music and movies. I'm also working on translating Shakespeare to Klingon and Andorian, though those are taking a bit more effort. Klingons lack several human concepts, and the Andorians have several genders to pick and choose from, so..."

T'Pol nodded. "An intriguing gift. It will be much appreciated."

She refrained from acknowledging the hidden implication that Vulcans and humans had more in common culturally and linguistically than the other two dominant species in the sector. Since Hoshi did not comment either she hypothesized that the linguist either hadn't noticed, which was unlikely, or had too much tact to bring it up, knowing that most Vulcans did not enjoy being compared to the volatile humans. She had no need for such worries, however, since T'Pol had come to the same conclusion long ago.

Lieutenant commander...no, _commander_ Reed, now, gave her a carefully wrapped package to be opened later. He suggested that opening it now would be somewhat too personal for this occasion, and though this piqued her curiosity she decided to follow his advice. For now. He then gave her a separate parcel to hand to captain Tucker when they next met, and she agreed to do so. "He'll know what I mean by it. Tell him he owes me a drink, too."

"I will endeavor to do so."

Lieutenant Mayweather presented her with a surprising gift, an earring in the form of the IDIC symbol. "Well, my mom bought this years ago off a merchant from some place called Bajor, apparently earrings are a way of showing religious or philosophical statements there."

"I am aware of the Bajorans. I did not know Terran cargo vessels had traveled so far?"

He smiled. "Well, it wasn't so much the Horizon that went that far out as _they_ came close to _us_. Apparently you gotta take it easy when talking to them, they tend to get a bit pushy about their religion."

She simply nodded. The first Vulcan travelers to Bajor had returned with reports on the proselytizing species, and that their faith in unprovable non-corporeal omnipotent entities seemed unusually strong for an advanced spacefaring civilization. "Thank you."

Mayweather looked a little embarrassed. "You know, if you don't want to wear it as an earring I'm sure it could easily be made into a necklace, or-"

"I'm sure it can. It was a very thoughtful gift, lieutenant." She carefully replaced the piece of jewelery in the small box it had arrived in, and placed it next to the other gifts on the table. The somewhat ceremonial presenting of gifts had so far been agreeable, if mildly abrasive to her emotional control. She was coping.

But the next gift actually upset her equilibrium slightly.

It was a small velvet box, about the size of a padd. It resembled the jewelery box in which the earring had been given, but the design was more angular. On the lid was the new Starfleet insignia, the delta-wing, and surrounding it was a single golden laurel. She blinked, and looked up. Captain Archer had that slight crease to his brow that he only gained when concerned or worried. She opened the box.

"I cannot accept this, captain." She closed it up and began to hand the box back, but Archer pushed it away.

"It's my gift, and it's about time." He cleared his throat, and lightly tapped the side of his glass with a dessert spoon. "If I may have everyone's attention, please? I'd like to say a few words."

Scattered shouts of "Hear, hear!" and "Speech!" could be heard, and from the very back someone unseen shouted "Do the one with the gazelles!"

Archer smiled, briefly, then nodded in that general direction. "One more like that and it's a week of scrubbing oxygen filters, Ferrell." He paused, then let his gaze sweep around the room at the assembled crew. "When we first started out, more than six years ago, I was _told_...that we would be forced to have a Vulcan _observer_ in order to leave spacedock."

Another pause. "I was furious. To me, the Vulcans represented being held _back_, being patted on the head like an idiot child." He smiled grimly. "In hindsight, they were _right_. Smug, but right. We really _weren't_ ready for a lot of what we've faced out here. Some of the _species_ we've faced, some of the phenomenon...we had no _idea_. But even though they were right about _that_, they were also wrong about _one_ thing. Because when it comes right down to it, _no-one_ is ready for what comes their way. You have to face the unknown head-on, because anything else is to stagnate. Even the Vulcans know this. And especially you, commander T'Pol. When the High Command ordered you to return, you resigned rather than obey the whims of a stagnant, prejudiced regime, and joined Starfleet as the very first Vulcan. Without you, we would have perished in the Expanse many times over. Without you, we would have lost a good ship, a good crew, and lost any chance at lasting peace between humans, Vulcans, Andorians and Tellarites."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. Granted, her presence had been beneficial to the crew and Starfleet, but she had hardly been alone in this. And...her motives for remaining had not been entirely pure even then, though it had taken some time to admit this to herself.

"And so it is with the very greatest personal pleasure that I award her with what should have been hers long ago." He took the box from her grasp, opened it, and pulled out a small colorful ribbon, no longer than a little finger, to which a gilded stylized starburst medallion was attached. In fine writing on the metal was the captain's own name. "The Star Cross. For performing her duty above and beyond the required, for great courage and insight, and for boldly going with us where no Man had gone before. _Thank_ you. Live long, and prosper."

He gave her the required military salute before following up with the traditional Vulcan split-fingered greeting. She returned both, though she was slightly less aggressive in the former. "Peace and long life, captain Archer."

To her intense personal shock and dismay, he picked her up in a strong embrace, lifting her off the floor. If not for her sturdy Vulcan physique she would likely have cracked a rib. She made a silent thank you to providence that he hadn't touched her bare hands or face in doing so. "_Godspeed_, T'Pol. May you always find what you _seek_, and may you always have safe harbor."

After that, the farewell party became a bit...hazy.

…

By the time she returned to her quarters she was tired and in dire need of either sleep or meditation. Neither was anything she was looking forward to. Instead she sat down and placed the many gifts in her second suitcase, along with her meditation paraphernalia, her IDIC plaque and the small portable stasis unit she was using to transport perishables. The peaches fit only barely, though she supposed that meant they would not tumble around inside it. Bruised peaches were...not aesthetically pleasing.

As she began to place the gift from commander Reed, she paused. She had promised to open it in a less public setting, and this was, after all, by definition, not a public space. The gift for Trip she placed in the suitcase, but the one for her...

If her opening was slightly less than methodical, she didn't notice. The paper was neatly disposed of, and the small cardboard box inside was quickly opened and...she stared at the contents. She had seen it before, in a way.

A small figurine of plastic, cheaply made in what had to be hundreds of years ago. A woman dressed in a ragged evening gown and bandages, staring in fright at something, raising her right arm as if to ward off whatever she was looking at. The woman had corpse-pale skin and visible seams along shoulders, arms, neck and face, and her tightly kinked hair was in a somewhat illogical and odd shape, standing up in what had to require a gallon of shaping product. Her hair was black except for white streaks at the temples, and on the base of the stand the figure was attached to was a printed title. _'Bride of Frankenstein'._

For what had to be hours, T'Pol of Vulcan sat on her bed staring at the little plastic statue, her face inscrutable.

…

* * *

…

**USS _Heronas_. In Orbit, Gamma Hydra II Trading Colony**

Captain Charles Anthony Tucker III_ ("Call me Trip.") _handed over a padd to his chief of engineering and finished giving instructions. "Now remember, the conduits are a mite touchy, and I want the coolant system to be back in tip-top before we disembark. This has the latest anti-matter mix ratios, and I want you to at least _try_ and fix the damn environmentals before morning. I don't care if you have to put someone else on it, just get it done. Gotta be at least a hundred degrees in my quarters."

"Yessir." The Hispanic man glanced at the padd, eyes running down the pages, then nodded. "Looks good. I'll be right on it."

"Oh, and Gutierrez?"

"...yessir?"

"This time wait until you've _checked_ the hull diagnostics before you declare us fit for high warp?"

Gutierrez reddened slightly, but simply nodded. "Yessir. Sorry sir. Won't happen a-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like I haven't done that mistake myself once or twice. Remind me to point out the spot on Enterprise's hull that still has a ding from where I clipped it with a worker bee. Now git."

He watched the junior officer rush off with a slight smile on his face. Gutierrez was fresh-baked, so to speak, this was his first chief of engineering job, and he was pretty good. Could get better, needed more confidence and not so much bowing and scraping, but you had to start _somewhere_, right? A padd appeared from out of nowhere, and he sighed. "Another one, Jonsson?"

"You need to approve for the ten barrels of warp plasma we got from the Tellarites, and you need to sign off on the inspected nacelles. Lieutenant Hall from the _Van Vogt_ double-checked. Oh, and some of the survivors from the freighters are wondering if we can give them a lift back to Venus."

He signed for the plasma, but handed the other padd right back. "Run it by Sawyer in engineering, _then_ get back to me. If he says they're fit for use, they are. And tell the boomers we got too little room for that, and besides we're heading in the other direction."

"Yessir. Oh, and the shuttle from _Enterprise_ is on approach. Just thought you'd like to know."

The crewman walked off, not a care in he world. Trip, on the other hand, was finding it mighty hard to find that smile again. He sighed. Well, best take that bull by the horns. Or pointy ears, as the case might be.

…

The airlock hissed open, and T'Pol stepped into it. She glanced around, finding the space somewhat more cramped than the same area on _Enterprise_. A MACO was..._not_ standing guard. Instead, she was busy welding something to the bulkhead. Trip on he other hand simply stood there, hands clasped behind his back.

"Permission to come aboard, captain."

He smiled, but it was a weary, strained smile. "Permission granted, commander."

She stepped over the threshold and was officially on the _Heronas_. Handing the padd with her orders to him she couldn't help but look more closely at her surroundings. There was a sense of mild chaos, crewmen carrying equipment and pieces of decking rushing by, flickering lights, and the air was - a very pleasant temperature, though she imagined the humans found it less balmy than she did. "My orders. Signed by admirals Gardner and Black, inspected and verified by captain Archer."

He glanced at them. "Verified. Your quarters are this way, if you don't mind? Crewman Jonsson will take your suitcases. Hey! Jonsson! Get over here! Did you bring the padd to-"

"Yessir. He's inspecting them himself now, sir."

"Good. Take her suitcases, would ya?"

Inclining her head she followed her bondmate through the cramped, badly lit corridors towards the crew quarters.

…

He was talking as they went. Mentioning the troubles they'd had getting the warp engine functioning, the repairs they'd had to make after something, quote unquote, 'fell off', talking about the crew, though not to their faces...everything except what truly mattered. Perhaps he wished for a more private venue for that conversation. Behind them trundled the slightly overweight crew-member with the Scandinavian-sounding name. Judging by his troubles following them at a decent pace he had likely not gone through the required physicals in some time.

After what had to be only minutes they reached the crew quarters. She noticed that her own quarters were...quite a ways from his. Had he chosen them? Or was it coincidence? Most likely coincidence.

"Pardon the mess, but we kind of had to leave spacedock before we got everything looking pretty and snug. Upside is that we can soundproof the walls for you since the external paneling isn't in yet."

He began to say something else, stopped himself, then opened the door. She could feel little sporadic waves of anxiety and unease through the bond, though it was only faint. There was also, now that she focused slightly, a constant sense of melancholy that had not been there before.

_Before he died._

Crewman Jonsson lugged her suitcases inside. He smelled faintly of cabbage. Not an odor she favored. Trip paused only to make sure nothing was obviously out of order and that the crewman had left before he stood by the door, rubbed the back of his neck nervously, and finally nodded, as if deciding on something. She felt his unease lessen, though the anxiety and constant moroseness remained.

"My ready room, in half an hour? Down the corridor, to the left, past the turbolift. We - like you said..." He took a deep breath. "We need to talk."

After she nodded he vanished out into the hall, leaving her to her new quarters.

Unpacking took less than ten minutes. Her clothes put away, her perishable foodstuffs in the stasis unit, her personal belongings placed neatly on the shelf in order of viewing importance. After some hesitation, she placed the Bride on the opposite side of the shelf from the Monster, with her newly gifted collection of bound paper books in between. She was grateful that Hoshi had not used animal hide to bind the paper copies of her translations, though where she had acquired the synthetic materials and paper in the first place was quite puzzling.

The earring was a bit of a conundrum. She had no intention to have an ear pierced, for several reasons, one being that Vulcan ears had about nine thousand more nerve endings than their human or Bajoran counterparts. In fact, the Bajorans were so close to humans in their physiology that the resemblance was uncanny. Vulcans only _resembled_ humans closely, the Bajorans could probably exchange internal organs without fear of rejection. There was a thesis in there somewhere, she was almost certain of it. But as for the small piece of jewelery...

_An amulet._

She placed the small trinket back in its box.

…

Trip paced his ready room, padd in hand. On the display were several of his minor design alterations and improvements on the Buran-class, but he wasn't really looking at them. Well, only a little. When the door-chime finally sounded he almost jumped out of his shoes. The back of his head felt...feverish, somehow, but a brief check with his hand turned up nothing but normal skin temperature. Maybe he was coming down with something.

She entered the room and he felt his heart skip a beat, again. Gorgeous as a morning. Though maybe a little tired-looking. Not that he'd mention it. As the door hissed closed behind her he seated himself at the desk, then motioned for her to take one of the chairs on the other side of it. She sat down, hands in her lap, knees together. Staring at him expectantly.

He'd considered using the carefully doctored and outrageous lie Section 31 had concocted, but it felt wrong. In fact, any alteration of the truth felt wrong. Not just because he suspected she'd know about it if he tried. In fact, the only option he had was to give her the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Even if it was classified. Though most of the details weren't really needed. He took a deep breath.

_Well, here goes nothing._

"How much do you know?" Opening with a question was a good way to buy time. Well, maybe.

She raised one eyebrow. It wasn't the amused one. "I know that you contacted the Aenar of Andoria, falsified your own death and..._severed_...our bond somehow. I know that you have since managed to restore it, though it feels...erratic."

He nodded. "Yeah. Well, no. I didn't sever it. It was just...muted. Blocked. At the time I felt I had to do it that way. Now, I don't know."

He watched her, carefully. _God_, she was beautiful.

"I'm gonna tell you a lot of things that are actually highly classified. If Harris knew I was telling you _any_ of this, he'd probably pop a gasket." Sitting down felt wrong, so he stood up. When T'Pol began to rise as well he motioned for her to remain seated. Then he began to tell her everything while pacing back and forth in the ready room. And he told her _everything_. Well, apart from the details she had no interest in.

He told her about how it all started with baby Lizzie, after her funeral. How when they returned back to Earth he was going through some of the remnants of the Terra Prime mobile base when he found something unexpected. Something that explained a lot of things about them, like for example just where they got the medical know-how to combine human and Vulcan DNA when even doctors like Phlox had no clue how to do so. Because in the remains of the Orpheus mining base he had found a power conduit that he recognized, but had only seen once before. It was kind of distinctive.

He stopped pacing, grabbed onto the metal cabinet by the door to the small galley beyond, and continued on.

"The technology, a lot of the funding and most of the genetic know-how they used came from the Romulans. Most of it untraceable. The only evidence I had was the conduit, and that was generic enough to be usable by a dozen species. But I know Romulan work when I see it. They're as perfectionist as..."

There was a subtle shift to her features. Where before she had been reserved but attentive she now seemed more obviously attentive and...pensive? Something like that.

"About a week after that I got a message from Section 31." Pushing off from the cabinet he paced back to his desk, but instead of sitting down he leaned against the wall. "Man named Harris told me he had an offer for me. A one-time mission to sabotage the Romulan warp project and hopefully set them back enough to even the game a bit. Only trouble is, the Romulans don't trust anyone not Romulan. So me and the other agent had to...change."

This made her raise The Eyebrow. "Change?"

"Yeah. If you're gonna infiltrate the Romulan Star Empire, you gotta look like a Romulan." He looked straight at her. "Like a Vulcan."

Her eyes widened and he heard her take a quick breath. Had she already known? Or was this as much a surprise to her as it was when Harris told him the Section already knew exactly what Romulans looked like, they were just keeping mum because alliance with the Vulcans was far more important than giving the populace a face to their enemy. He didn't push her on the subject, especially since he agreed with that judgment.

At a point like this, during war, when relations with the Vulcans were already tense because of their neutrality, well...and this also meant he understood why they were neutral. If they joined in, no matter how much they might like to, all the Romulans had to do to break up such an alliance at the worst possible moment would be to reveal what they looked like. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Unless...

"Me and another agent spent the better part of seven months recovering from the surgery and infiltrating the Romulan underground on Vulcan. When the war ends we'll hand the Council a list of every known agent, but right now they're too useful to bust. Anyway, once we were accepted as Romulan infiltrators it was easy to get the smuggler's routes they use to sneak into our systems and backtrack through'em to their own turf. We never went near the capitol world, though. Too risky. Spent almost four months there, wandering the space lanes, looking for leads, then a month or so infiltrating the planet where they were holding their trials. They were close. Damn close. They were...well, let's just say if they'd gotten away with it we'd all be hailing our Romulan overlords by now. Once we were done, we came home. The rest you know."

Through it all T'Pol had listened, never commenting, just taking it all in. When he was finally done she merely looked at him with that same calm expression. Though her left cheek was twitching slightly. Usually a bad sign. He had to admit she was taking it pretty well, considering the circumstances.

"You have told me where you have been this past year. You have also told me how. What you have not told me is _why_."

_Crap. The one question I don't want to answer._

He took a deep breath, holding it. Exhaling slowly. Another. She raised an eyebrow, and he realized he was doing one of the breath exercises she'd taught him. "Like I said, it all started with baby Lizzie."

This didn't seem to explain much, so he continued. "When she died...we both grieved separately. Now I guess that's how you Vulcans do it, but me, I needed..."

_You_.

"...I needed something more. I already turned in on myself once when my sister died, and I didn't want to fall into that trap again, so I started looking for something to do. Anything. I buried myself in sifting through the Terra Prime base, I even - I even went to see a grief counselor. Didn't really work out all that well."

He sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "When Harris contacted me, it felt like...well, at first my only thought was to get back at'em for what they did to us. Even in war there are things you just don't _do_, and we weren't even at war yet. But as I started preparing it got..._bigger_. I mean, we weren't exactly the perfect couple, much like your people and mine aren't exactly the best of friends. At best we had a sort of big brother-little brother thing going, up until the day we launched the Enterprise. So I figured if I pulled this off, if I did this one job, maybe it'd help more people than just myself. It'd certainly help in keeping us allies. What's that bit you liked quoting when we were in the Expanse, 'the needs...'"

"'...of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one.' It is...an admirable sentiment, provided the few or one are volunteering."

He nodded. "Yeah. So I went from wanting a little payback to wanting to keep everyone back home safe. Did a lot of things I'm not proud of. At the time I thought it was necessary, even unavoidable. Now, I'm not so sure."

Running his hands through his hair he noticed that he needed a shower. When was the last time he washed up? Oh, right after he woke up. About...yesterday.

"Now, the bond...when I decided to do this thing and he told me I had to fake my death...well, I knew Romulans had a lot in common with Vulcans. I didn't know if they could tell about the bond or if they knew I had one with you, but considering they have several highly placed moles in your intelligence I wouldn't put it beyond'em. Thing was, it had to be real to everyone. No-one could know. And I was...I was still kind of in a bad place, so I figured if anyone knew how to mask a telepathic bond it'd be the Aenar."

He looked up at her. "I never told Harris why I needed to speak to them, though. Made up some cockamamie story about Romulans being rumored to be telepathic. For all I know it's true."

That feverish sensation was running hot and cold now, prickling, needling his scalp. Maybe Phlox had something. Oh, wait, Phlox was on the _Enterprise_, wasn't he? They didn't _have_ a doctor, yet. All they had was one of the MACO who had nurse training. "Anyway, I didn't sever it. The bond. It was just...frozen. Hurt like a bastard, too. Guess the Aenar didn't know that would happen."

"Yes."

He nodded. "Yeah. Last thing I heard when they beamed me out of engineering back then was you screaming."

_I've heard that scream every night since. On the few times I don't see the faces of the people I got killed._

He'd never been one for pop music. Blues, R'n'B, country rock was more his thing. But even with that, he still found a certain phrase that was quite appropriate for what followed. The sound of silence. Well, he was hearing it right now.

…

Her mind was racing. It was illogical. Irrational. Making such a decision on his own, and - but he was human. And at the time they were not close. Was it her fault? Had she pushed him away? She had told him she needed time to grieve, to heal. She had believed he understood, but perhaps she had assumed Vulcan logic from him when she should have expected human emotion.

He seemed to realize what she was thinking, because all of a sudden he looked at her with no small amount of distress. "No. _No_, this was _not_ your fault. It wasn't because of _you_ that I did what I did. It was all me. I was being stupid, I was -"

"You are human." Her previous irritation with his behavior resurfaced. "Your decision was irrational and founded in flawed logic. That is human. You treated our bond as if it was something that can be put aside. It is not."

She gathered up her thoughts. "We are going to work together on this vessel for quite some time. I suggest we leave things the way they are for now. In time, perhaps we may re-examine the bond. This is not that time."

With that she stood up, smoothed out the wrinkles on her pant legs, inclined her head in goodbye, and left.

…

He just sat there for a good long while, and then he sighed. "Well, _that_ went better than I thought it would."

…

_

* * *

The End (sort of)_


	12. Epilogue

**Author's Note:** Well, here we are. This is the epilogue, as you may have guessed, and a bit of a promise. While it may be some time before I return to Trip and T'Pol on the Heronas, there _will_ be more. I _like_ this ship and her crew. I have at _least_ five stories outlined, with character growth, running plot arcs and Trek-y goodness planned, so the tale does _not_ end here. Far from it.

Unfortunately I'm also writing ten or so _other_ stories (seriously...I get easily distracted and my overactive imagination shoots a thousand story ideas at me every day), so it'll be a while before the next one.

So while our T&T couple might be still on the out and outs, well...let's just say I'm a sucker for happy endings.

And with that, I give you a slight taste of things to come.

…

* * *

…

**Vildraxa IV**

The storm outside was whipping the small spaceport with all the fury of the planet's tilted climate. Once the planet had been a paradise, but a meteor strike a few centuries ago had tilted the planet on its axis, subtly altered the orbit and caused a severe climate change followed by massive storms that swept the surface clean of life within a few decades. Now all that remained were slowly eroding empty cities that made perfect hideouts for smugglers, pirates, slavers and other such genteel folk.

Rukon had been smuggling things in and out of Tellarite space for six years now, after the altercation with his old captain that had lead to him being the new owner of the beat-up old freighter currently hidden in an old building not twenty meters from the raunchy tavern he was currently trying very hard to get drunk in.

It had been a temple, someone had told him. The Vildraxans, bless their extinct little souls, had been very devout, worshiping a pantheon of somewhat irate deities who demanded minor sacrifices and gave nothing back. The spaceport had been a center of learning, and here lay old libraries, temples and universities which now served as docking bays, taverns and cheap warehouses for anyone who disliked actual legalities and authorities.

"I tell you that was a bit of a scare, no problems, yes?" He ran a hand over his jowl ridges to soothe his nervousness. "There I am, grounded, while the humans and Romulans are fighting in orbit. I could have been searched properly! Thankfully they didn't look to closely at an old spacer making a run for it in all that chaos. Now, if-"

Someone gripped his shoulder quite firmly. Enough to make him wince, in fact. He tried to look around but only caught a glimpse of someone big dressed in black and silver.

A woman seated herself in front of him. A Vulcan? She was dressed in an expensive burgundy-red coat the likes he'd have to do _three_ runs to be able to afford for one of his wives back home, and her head was in an unusual style for her people. She smiled at him, which made him feel even more ill at ease.

What kind of a Vulcan smiles?

"You are captain Rukon of the freighter Yugassa. You departed Gamma Hydra II less than two weeks ago. Correct?"

He felt himself go cold. Was she some kind of law enforcer? He'd heard the Vulcans and Tellarites had started working together, but policing? "Maybe I am. What's it to you?"

Her smile stayed, but her eyes...the grip on his shoulder _shifted,_ and blazing pain shot down his side. He tried to scream, but all he could manage was a silent squeak. "I ask, you answer. Or my friend behind you gets creative. He knows many ways of making this conversation unpleasant. Now, am I correct?"

He tried to answer, but nothing came out. Finally she glanced at her goon, who shifted the grip back to mere incapacitation. The pain went away as quickly as it came. "Yes! Yes, I am him."

Her smile widened, and he caught a glimpse of perfect white teeth. "Good. I do so hate having to repeat my questions. Now, you were saying you left right after the battle in orbit ended?"

He nodded. "Yes. Yes I did."

The smile vanished as she pursed her lips thoughtfully. Goodness, even for an unridged female she was attractive. It was an odd, almost _threatening_ beauty. "There was a ship that fired the weapon that incapacitated the lead vessel of the Romulan force. Tell me what ship that was."

He frowned. "You...well, it's no secret. A human ship. A new type, I heard said, small and fast. They claimed it was running at warp six point five in order to make it there on time. Now that's speed! I hear even the Andorians and Bajorans have trouble getting to those speeds!"

The woman smiled, and suddenly there was pain again. She leaned up close to him, and spoke into his ear. "You are a fool, Rukon. But you will tell me what I know and your death will be painless. Tell me who commanded that ship. Tell me who killed my father."

_Her father?_ But why would a Vulcan have a father on a-

The grip shifted again, and he started talking.

…

* * *

…

**In A Palace By A Lake By A Mountain...**

...sat a ruler bored out of her skull. Every day the same. Up early in the morning to dress in impractical, heavy gowns, carry out state business before breakfast, break fast with whomever suited the court's political ambitions at the moment, then inspect troops in their gaudy, ridiculous uniforms in a dozen colors (a stark blue would be _so_ much more debonair in its simplicity), after which it was spiced tea and luncheon with yet another supplicant, then smile and nod and pretend to listen to a dozen or more self-absorbed suitors more enamored by her title than her self, then banquet, audience with commoners...

It was enough to make you want to _gag_.

The suns were setting, and she pondered moving home to the capitol soon. Her palace here was gorgeous, but she missed the drier, cooler winds of her home world. Also, they weren't so conservative there. Oh, she had tried. She really had. But changing the way a star nation is can be so difficult. Some parts of her great nation even still used _metamorphs_ to cement deals, a barbaric, _misogynist_ custom in her eyes.

Well, at least they weren't Valtese. She could still remember the young Valtese noble who had attempted to woo her with talk of finances and taxes. _Dull as dishwater, _as a very dear friend would have said.

The memory made her smile. Such beautiful eyes, he had. Not to mention that the rest of him had been quite well-turned also. Ah, regrets. There were so many. He was one of them. She could have brought him along and watched him sweep them off their feet, but she had been responsible and dutiful and far too prim and proper to give in to such an idea.

_More fool me._

She suppressed a sigh. "Give me the latest news."

Her herald opened his mouth to begin yelling out whatever tidbits of information was deemed of interest to her, but she stopped him with an imperious finger raised high. "No. Your padd. _Give_ it to me."

He stared at her in shock. "Your majesty, I could not-"

"_Majesty_. Yes, that would be _me_. I am ordering you to bring me your padd."

The poor man paled, then blushed, then paled again. Finally he handed over the small octagonal device, his hands trembling. She snatched it away and waved him off.

So, what _were_ the news? Nothing interesting. Trade embargoes, war between the Klingons and whomever they were angry with this week, more wild reports of the mythical Planet-Slayer, Ferengi caught smuggling at the borders...she flipped through headline after headline, nothing really catching her attention-

_Oh._

Her cheeks heated. Her eyes grew wide. Her hearts were beating out of rhythm. He was _alive?_ He _was_ alive! And a _captain!_ Oh, this was too good to be true! Hero of some place called Gamma Hydra, wherever that was. Tellarite space, perhaps. A colony? Something like that. She stared at the three-dimensional photo. He looked thin, but it was...it was _him_. It was _definitely_ him. Looking very dashing and brave.

First Monarch Kaitaama VI of the Krios Prime Star Nation smiled. Oh, the galaxy was starting to regain the luster she had been lacking for _far_ too long now. "Bring me my scribes and lawmakers! It's time we began reviewing our trade agreement with Earth..."

…

* * *

…

**Betazoid.**

_-Well. This is an ugly one._

_-You think so?_

Captain Gol of the Planetary Civilian Authority frowned at what seemed to be the remains of a young woman, late twenties, pale blonde-blue hair, dressed in an evening gown of a popular design...

_-Yes. I do think so._

He leaned down and looked at his recently assigned partner.

_-See these bruises? See the way her arms seem to be broken in several place right along where the bruises are? Someone very, very strong manhandled her. _

_-Manhandled?_

He shrugged. Trust lieutenant Troi to nitpick a thought.

_-However you want to phrase it. These are not bruises from a beating, Troi. These are from where her assailant held her. Her killer held her with so much strength that it broke the bones in her arms by sheer force of his or her hands. We're talking someone stronger than a Klingon. Now who could be our suspect?_

Troi frowned in deep thought and Gol had to keep a stray exasperated emotion from tainting his surface gestalt. The man was a fairly strong empath and telepath, and had recently married into one of the finest families on the planet, but logic was _not_ his strong suit. Nor was tact, but his wife's house was notorious for being overly familiar and rude. He waited.

_-...an Orion?_

_-Can you really imagine a seven foot or taller Orion male escaping notice on this planet? Most of us are barely six feet, if that. No, someone as strong as an Orion male, but no bigger than a Betazed. _

Again the younger detective frowned.

_-I am sorry, I do not see an answer to your question._

Gol nodded.

_-That's because there _isn't_ one. Not yet. Witnesses claim to have seen her conversing with a man a few hours before she was found, but they did not leave together, and they seemed to be friendly to one another. Besides, the man she was seen with was a Vulcan, and can you really see a Vulcan do anything like this?_

They both chuckled. Nearby, a young Trill working on a cultural exchange program with their department frowned at them.

"You guys do realize it's creepy when you have long conversations in your head, right?

_-Sorry._

_-Sorry._

"Gah! _Stop_ that! _Spare_ me from telepaths..." He wandered off, leaving them to grin at one another.

_-Mindblinds, eh?_

_-I know. It's a wonder they get _anything_ done._

Gol stood back up and stared into the face of the woman. Pretty. Or she had been. And someone had beaten her to a pulp in a savage rage. Horrible. Just horrible. What kind of monster could _do_ that to someone?

…

* * *

The End.

For now...


End file.
